

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 




















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THE PUPIL "V 


LEGION OF HONOR. 


7-. 

LOUIS ENAULT. 




PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER and COATES, 

822 Chestnut Street. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tne year 1871, by 
PORTER & COATES, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at "Washington. 


MEARS & DTTSENBERY, STEREOTYPERS. 


SHERMAN & CO., PRINTERS. 


Letter from Porte Crayon to the Publishers 


Berkeley Springs, June 1st, 1871. 

Gentlemen : 

“ The Pupil of the Legion of Honor,” translated from the 
French by Mrs. K. L. Tutt, is a most charming book, elevated 
in tone, delicate in sentiment, and wise in its teachings ; a book 
which may be read with pleasure in the most refined family cir- 
cle, and with profit by that large class of young women, who are, 
in this country, earnestly and practically endeavoring to solve 
the question of woman’s rights and woman’s duties. 

« 

While preserving all the purity and grace of the original 
style, the translator has been eminently successful in rendering 
the story into clear, readable English ; and altogether, I do not 
doubt that this book will be found one of the most engaging and 
agreeable summer visitors to the reading world. 

Very respectfully yours, &c., 

David H. Strother. 



THE 


Pupil of the Legion of Honor 

k 


EUbiccittott. 

To Poor Young Women. 


This book is written expressly for 
you, and it is to you I dedicate it. 
To you who often suffer, and who 
are always working. 

All ought to aid you, for you are 
weak, and life is hard and rough for 
you. Many snares surround your 
youth. How few there are who 
recognise the brotherly interest you 
ought to inspire! We only notice 
you as you pass in the flower and 
brightness of your twenty years, and 
believe we have done all, when w~e 
allow you to see the admiration we 
experience. I myself, who have 
vowed to find out this feminine 
enigma so much more attractive than 
one has ever imagined, I have 
sometimes tried to depict the life of 
women. But usually I have searched 
for my heroines among the rich and 
happy, amongst the queens of the 
world, who have only had the trouble 
of being born in order to enjoy all 
the pleasures of life. I have felt 
myself then carried away by the 
fiery age, that fatal current. 

Later when life has become more 
composed, I have reflected. I have 
compared. Existence has appeared 
under another aspect, and my sym- 
pathy has gone entirely to the dis- 
inherited, to those for whom each 


minute is a peril, each hour a battle, 
each day a trial and verdict. 

It is of one of those ! One of 
you, that I have chosen to relate of 
in my book. 

Poor as you — she is, may be more 
unhappy still; since she was born 
rich ; sin<?e she has received an edu- 
cation that they call liberal, doubt- 
less because it freely gives to wo- 
men the liberty of dying with hun- 
ger. 

Contrary chances, the malice of 
things, an adverse destiny, threw her 
at twenty years in the midst of the 
hardest works. Nothing is spared 
her. Neither the sufferings of the 
soul nor those of the body — neither 
the despair of deceived love nor the 
torture of hunger! Yet nothing 
shakes her courage — nothing abates 
her energy — nothing daunts her 
will. All is sorrowful within her; 
and she would yield a hundred times 
if she were not of this valiant race 
which grows greater in the contest. 
She accepts work as the law even 
of her life, and it is by work that 
she triumphs ; for she does triumph ! 
She finds, at last, security in for- 
tune and rest in love. All those 
who may have worked and struggled 
will triumph like her. 


( 3 ) 


4 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


I do not say that they will all 
reach the brilliancy of rank and the 
opulence of a millionaire. But opu- 
lence and brilliancy have never been 
indispensable conditions of happi- 
ness. One is happy above all things 
through the noble efforts made to 


fulfil duty by the consciousness of 
having done right ; and this happi- 
ness, which is the only true happi- 
ness, God has placed at the door of 
all and with all ; and it suffices to 
strive for it in order to obtain it. 

Louis Enault. 


PROLOGUE. 


CHAPTER I. 

A VRANCHES is a charming town. 

The very first view of it captivates 
the traveller. He desires to stop there; 
and regrets passing too rapidly. The 
ancient city, always young, is situated 
on a promontory commanding the dis- 
tant sea, and a horizon of vast fields 
watered by the S6e, a pretty little river, 
which unrolls to the sun her mirror of 
smooth water. 

Avranches, as so many other towns, 
has seen fall, under the hand of man, 
and under the scythe of time, its ancient 
crown of battlements, its diadem of bells 
and all its ornaments of the middle ages. 
Still it has always kept its great masses 
of foliage thrown out between the co- 
quettish houses, and waving under the 
roofs as waves a bunch of feathers on the 
crest of a helmet. 

Around the town, along all the roads, 
rise the most coquettish little houses in 
the world — little Renaissant castles, Go- 
thic manors, modern chateaux, Italian 
villas, English cottages, Swiss chalets, 
mixed with Normandy huts. 

If, on leaving the suburbs, you take 
the road leading to Saint Malo, you will 
soon find, in an exquisite country, where 
by nature and by man, all seems arranged 
just as you would desire to please the 
eye, a little original edifice, picturesque 
and fanciful. 

It is built of stone and brick, of earth 
and wood, full of fancies and caprice — 
an outside staircase, uncomfortable, but 
very ornamental, surrounds the house, 
and serves as its only stairway, or rather, 
open balcony, carved in oak, and on 
which open the doors and windows of 


the apartments. A gigantic rose tree, 
a hundred years old, with its pliant 
branches, its innumerable flowers, carpets 
the walls, festoons the staircase, mounts 
to the top of the balcony, and embroi- 
ders the roof with its perfumed garlands. 
I know nothing more beautiful than its pe- 
tals of snow, tinted with an impercepti- 
ble cloud of flesh color, so pale that it 
scarcely mars their immaculate whiteness. 

Before the house, to which this enor- 
mous shrub has given the name of the 
Rosery, a thick impervious turf, which 
rises from the foot that has trampled on 
it, unrolls its best carpet of green velvet. 

A clear rivulet with a silver foam runs 
between two banks bordered with moss- 
es, cresses, and these “ myosotes,” friends 
of the water, which timidly open them- 
selves as the blue eyes of a German. It 
crosses the grass-plat, drawing there some 
ingenious lines, maintaining its vigorous 
freshness, and feeds a basin, whose bor- 
ders are filled with the shell-fish that the 
tide of the sea has left in withdrawing 
from the coast. All this makes one in- 
voluntarily dream of those grottoes of 
stones, where the nymphs and goddesses 
came in olden times, to bathe their 
naked feet. 

At the top of the staircase, is a 
small pepper-box shaped turret with a 
turned spire, extending as high as the 
vine-covered roof, whilst on the other 
end, an octagonal tower terminates in a 
platform, whose stone balustrade rests in 
the midst of sweet-scented clematis, its 
head dressed in the green of an old ivy. 

The roof, which holds three chimneys, 
lacks a little in height. One does not 
have to search long in order to see all 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


5 


the bluish slate, nor all these varnished 
tiles, which trace on the house the bril- 
liant arches. 

In the neighboring fields, one is struck 
by the thatched huts which content the 
peasant for his home, and which by the 
alternatives of rain and of sunshine, of 
darkness and of light, have given them 
by the variable seasons, shades of the 
richest and most incomparable variety of 
browns. As nothing is immutable in 
the eternal changes of nature, as nothing 
dies for ever in this everlasting fruitful- 
ness, new vegetation shoots forth on this 
vegetation cut short. A thousand little 
plants spring up and blossom on this 
dry straw and make a bouquet of each 
house. / 

On the top, in the place that else- 
where, (in other houses,) is occupied by 
the carved brass tile-ridge, the plumet, 
fashioned like an ear of corn, and the turn- 
ing weathercocks, is quilted in a light bed 
of soil and of clay, the dark roots of 
these beautiful ires, with their brilliant 
petals, which bathe in the freshness of 
the air, drink the pure dew, play in the 
sunshine, and allow themselves to float 
in the wind, a trail of variegated light. 

It is spring time. Perfumed scents 
breathe from the bosom of the earth. 
The bushes sing. The hedges blossom. 
The wild broom with its golden flower 
glows in the midst of the thorn. The 
large rocks are clothed with a mantle of 
saxifrages, of heath, of roses, and of 
green mosses. On the sand, too often 
forlorn and desolate, the waves murmur 
as far as the horizon, so sweetly that one 
might imagine they are singing. 

The Mont Saint Michel with its ele- 
gant and stern profile, outlining itself 
on a double ,blue, the ocean below, the 
heavens above, adds the greatest charm 
to the landscape. 

No person could stop before the white 
barrier which separates the Rosery from 
the road, without murmuring to himself 
and perhaps with a sigh of envy, “ This 
must be the abode of happiness 1 ” 

Alas ! does one ever know where hap- 
piness dwells ? 


CHAPTER II. 

T1ITHILST we admire the sweet and 
H smiling appearance of the Ro- 
sery; whilst in our minds we select this 


lovely spot to locate there the peaceable 
scenes of happiness, the Rosery is the 
theatre of one of those dark and hidden 
dramas which unrolls itself each day. 
Alas ! in our discreet mansions, and the 
bitter reality of which far outstrips the 
darkest inventions of the dramatist or 
novelist. 

For, even at this moment, the master 
of the Rosery is dying ! 

He dies on this adorable morning of 
May. Around him all seems reborn — 
everything invites him to live. He dies 
when insensible nature, clothing herself 
with all her graces, makes herself more 
beautiful than ever for those very eyes 
which will never see her more. 

In the best room, transformed into 
an impromptu chapel, we see near the 
bed, on a table covered with white linen, 
to resemble an altar, several silver can-' 
dlesticks, where burn the little tapers 
placed around the censers. 

The dying man lies stretched on his 
death-bed. On his left a young nun, as 
pale as a ghost, prays in a low tone ; on 
his right a gray-haired priest, surpliced 
and with stole, holds with one hand the 
hand of the patient, and with the other 
points him to heaven. Near the window 
a chorister, with the indifference of his 
age, looks at the passing clouds. He 
who dies thus is not an old man — one 
would scarcely set him at fifty years. 
His noble countenance, on which death 
has already cast his shadow, shows all 
the characteristics of the particular kind 
of beauty called military beauty. A 
large forehead, the imperious frown of the 
commander; large, straight features, 
breathing frankness and energy with 
firmness — firmness in life and in the 
presence of death. There is something 
loyal in the whole countenance. On the 
lips is goodness, and in the eyes, now 
nearly extinguished, a pathetic look by 
which one feels involuntarily moved to 
sadness. 

At the head of the bed you see a 
sword, with the handle and guard made 
of gold ; an epaulet on either side ; and 
underneath, the cross, on a ribbon of the 
Commander of the Legion of Honor. 

The priest offers to the dying man the 
consolations of Faith and the encourage- 
ment of Hope — those two divine virtues 
which aid us in dying. He spoke of the 
life without end, succeeding this dream 


6 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


of a day — which is our sad lot on earth. 
And he endeavored to soothe the agony 
of death by talking of the goodness of 
God. 

“ My dear cure,” said the dying man, 
with a feeble but distinct voice, u you 
know perfectly that my faith is yours. 
All you tell me I myself believe; and 
then, besides, we have so often looked 
each other in the face — death and I — 
that we can no longer fear each other ; 
and I am ready to report to the roll-call 
that they beat on high. And lo, my 
dear cure, I believe that call will come 
before seven o’clock to-day ; but I have 
expected this for six months.” 

“A good death is the reward of a 
good life,” said the priest, with consol- 
ing kindness. 

“ But my daughter ; my poor little 
Jeanne ! What will become of her ? 
Oh, my God ! when I am gone who will 
take care of her ? Who will love her ? 
No one ! Behold ! this is what makes 
me desperate and frightens me 1” 

' “ God is great ! He is as good as he 
is powerful. He gives food to the little 
birds — how can you think he will aban- 
don a creature made in his own image ?” 

“Alas ! he has so many children !” 
said the dying man with a pale smile. 
“ besides, man so often frustrates his 
intentions. My dear cure, pardon me 
for speaking thus to you, but do you 
see, I should be less uneasy if, in place 
of being a child — a daughter of my 
heart and of my blood — Jeanne was one 
of those swallows who hang their nest in 
my window ; or one of those little birds 
who sing in the honeysuckle.” 

“ Do not speak so, I implore !” 

“ What do you expect ? Since I feel 
I am dying, these ideas engross and agi- 
tate me more than I can tell. Some- 
times they assume the form of remorse.” 

“ Of remorse ! You talk of remorse, 
colonel ?” 

“ Yes ; I feel myself guilty towards 
my daughter, whom I love so much. I 
have, in part, squandered her little pa- 
trimony, and I have fatally entangled, 
in the desire, to increase it, the little in- 
heritance left by her mother.” 

The cure remained a moment without 
replying, and a tear ran down the 
blanched cheek of the colonel. 

“ Do not distress yourself thus, my 
honored friend,” at last replied the good 


priest. “Will not the Bosery pass en- 
tirely to your daughter?” 

“ Alas ! the Bosery is mortgaged for 
three-quarters of its value. It would 
have been much better if I had sold it 
long ago, but I had not the courage. 
What could I do ? — One is but human ! 
It was here I knew Jeanne’s mother, 
my dear Elise, she who made the happi- 
ness of my life. To lose the Bosery was 
to lose her a second time. I could not 
do it. This weakness — which she may 
some day excuse— compromised, alas ! the 
interest of my daughter. When my 
debts are settled, she will barely have, 
for her whole possessions, this house, 
where she was born.” 

“ But your friends ?” 

“ The dead have no friends.” 

“ Your family?” 

“ I have no family. My father was a 
soldier — like myself an officer of fortune 
— namely, without fortune. He has left 
me his name without stain, his reputa- 
tion for honor, and his sword.” 

The priest sat down. 

“ Are there no relations on your wife’s 
side ?” 

“ My wife was also an orphan. She 
inherited her little property from an 
uncle — her only relative. My daughter 
will remain alone in this vast world.” 

“ And I ! ungrateful one ! You count 
me as nothing.” 

“You, my dear cure ! You are like 
the good God — very good — but you be- 
long to all the world. Y"ou seem as if 
you did not belong tjo any one.” 

“Ah ! colonel, you have such a way 
of saying those things !” 

“ I tell things as they are. Don’t 
you see? You have your poor, or rather 
your poor liaye you. You cannot take 
a new charge — a charge as heavy as that 
of an orphan.” 

The cure felt the colonel was right, 
and did not insist any longe^. 

“ When I am dead,” continued the 
colonel, — “ to-morrow, or sooner, per- 
haps, — you will take the child to the 
village, to the house of Madame La Mar- 
quise de Boutaric, who honors me with 
some regard. Give her this letter, and 
place Jeanne in her hands. All is pro- 
vided for and arranged in these,” con- 
tinued he, with a still firm voice, hand- 
ing the priest a large package sealed 
with black wax, “ and I know the mar- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


7 


quise too well not to be certain she will 
carry out my wishes. Tell her, how- 
ever, that my thoughts of her, and con- 
fidence in her, have aided me to die.” 

“ I will do all you desire. You can- 
not doubt that.” 

“ Ah ! I do not doubt ; but my eyes 
tremble. It is the commencement of 
the end. The end will soon come.” He 
turned himself towards the nun. who was 
still praying. “ My sister,” said he, 
softly, “ will you be kind enough to call 
the child ?” 

The sister went out. 

The colonel, when alone with the 
priest, showed him, by a glance, the 
portrait of a beautiful lady hanging by 
a child’s. The cure handed it to him. 
It was a charming head, with an ex- 
pression of refined though delicate sen- 
sibility. The oval outline of the face per- 
haps rather long; an intellectual brow, 
surrounded with light chestnut-colored 
hair hanging in soft waves on the cheeks; 
eyes of a light orange brown, shining in 
a liquid light. 

“ To see her again ! To see ■ her 
again !” said the colonel, with an accent 
of deep tenderness, and a look which 
seemed to rekindle the last spark — a last 
lightning flash of passion. 

The sister now returned with the child. 

“ Jeanne, is it thou? Where art 
thou ?” 

“ Here I am, father — here I am,” re- 
plied a young, pure, fresh and thrilling 
voice, whose tones sounded like silver. 

At the same time, a large child (for 
ten years of age) whose features and ex- 
pression recalled so faithfully the image 
of her mother, ran to the bed, and seized 
in her hands one of the hands already 
cold, and covered it with her tears, and 
re-warmed it with her kisses. 

“ You love me well, then, Jeanne ?” 

“ Do I love thee, father ? I love, thee 
as I love the good God !” replied the 
child, pressing her lips still lighter on the 
hand of the colonel. 

“ And I must leave her?” murmured 
the unhappy father, casting on the priest 
a sorrowful look. 

“ The separations of Christians are 
never eternal.” 

“ Are they less painful for that ?” 

“Yes for Faith softens them and 
Hope consoles them !” 

The colonel raised himself on his 


elbow, and leaned towards his child; 
caressing with his other hand her long 
floating curls. 

“Dear little one,” said he, speaking 
very low, “ I must leave you.” 

“ Leave me, father ! thou dost not 
then love me. Why wilt thou leave? 
Why dost thou wish to leave me ?” 

“ I do not wish it, my poor child ! 
and if I go, it is because I cannot help 
myself.” 

“And where, then, dost thou go, 
father ?” 

The colonel hesitated, not knowing 
how to reply. 

“I am going to see thy mother,” he 
said at last. “ Thy little mother, who 
loves thee so much. Thou must remem- 
ber her.” 

“ Ah ! thou art then going to mamma, 
whom the men in black have carried 
away, and who never came back again. 
Thou wilt do as she has done. Thou 
wilt return no more !” 

“ Fear nothing, my child, only be good 
and gentle, obeying the mistresses who 
will have the charge of raising and in- 
structing thee, and we will meet again. 
I promise you that we will meet again.” 

“ Yes,” replied Jeanne, the big tears 
running silently down her cheeks. “Yes,, 
mamma said the same thing, and I have 
never seen her since. Oh father ! father ! 
please do not leave me !” and her little 
arms .clung to the dying man, and tried 
to embrace him; as if to prevent him 
from leaving. 

The colonel made no reply : but big 
drops of cold perspiration formed at the 
roots of his hair and moistened his fore- 
head. Nervous sighs shook his breast, 
agitated his arms and contorted his face; 
whilst his fingers fidgeted without ceasing, 
trying by a movement entirely mechani- 
cal, to pull up the bed clothes and cur- 
tains of his bed. 

A familiar witness of those dark 
movements which accompany the last 
act of the human drama, the cure recog- 
nised with too much certainty, the fore- 
shadowing of death, and to spare the 
child this frightful spectacle while re- 
membrance in later years would darken 
her thoughts, he motioned silently to the 
sister to lead her away. 

Trembling, overpowered by her emo- 
tions, Jeanne, alas ! had neither the will 
nor strength to resist. The sister put 


8 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Tier arms round the child’s waist, the 
little hands unclasped, and she suffered 
herself to be carried away. 

The colonel, who had closed his eyes, 
feeling his child no more near him, 
understood too well the details of this 
sad scene. 

“ It is well ;” said he to the cure ; 
“you are right! I should frighten her; 
she must see me no more.” 

“ No — No more in this world !” 

The colonel made no reply, and fell 
apparently into a stupor. From time 
to time he raised himself with a sudden 
violence, his breathing became hard and 
painful. The priest knelt, and recited 
in a low^tone those beautiful prayers 
for the dying, full of pity, full of tears, 
which the church sends to their aid — 
to aid the soul of the Christian in leaving 
this world. Suffocation, want of breath, 
and vertigo, soon overcame the unhap- 
py mortal. He spoke but incoherent 
words, without connection, among which 
■one could yet distinguish the names of 
his wife and daughter, Elise and Jeanne. 
His two loves ! Then some short lamen- 
tations, followed by long faintness and 
•prostrations, so entire that one would 
believe he was already gone. 

After coming out of one of these 
death-like swoons, “ My cross !” he said, 
holding out his arms, as if to seize 
something. 

The priest tried to unfasten his cross 
of commander from the head of the bed. 

“ No ! not that !” cried he ; “ my cross, 
of a Chevalier !” 

The cure brought from the mantel- 
piece a cross of artillery, which hung 
by a faded, rumpled, discolored ribbon. 
The cross seemed to have been broken 
by sabre blows on the breast of the 
soldier, and in more than one place little 
pieces of the enamel were gone. After 
dusting it, the priest placed it in the 
colonel’s hand; but the slight weight 
seemed too heavy ; for he let it fall. It 
is always our first success that causes 
pleasure. 

“ I had first left school a second lieu- 
tenant when the general fastened this 
to my coat* Oh, that happy day ! It 
must, to-morrow, be fastened on my 
white clothes !” 

His eyes closed, this time for ever. 
The priest held a looking-glass to his 
mouth, but no breath tarnished its pure 


surface. He placed his hand on the 
heart, but no movement was perceptible. 

Already, the violet paleness of death 
spread over the forehead, cheeks and 
lips of the one who, still living, was no 
more than a corpse. 

“ All is ended for him in this world !” 
murmured the cure in a low voice: 
He then placed the cloth over his face; 
and assisted by the trembling chorist, 
arranged the tapers for the funeral 
watches, and recalled the sister, whose 
duty it was to recite by the deceased 
the prayers for the dead. 

After this he descended into the gar- 
den, where he found the little Jeanne, 
seated in a thoughtful mood, alongside 
of the fountain, crying silently, her 
eyes watching intently her father’s win- 
dow. A 

Seeing him coming, the child very 
seriously walked to meet him, looking 
in his face, without daring to speak. 
“ My child,” said the good cure, taking 
her little hand, “ your father orders us 
both to go to Avranches, to the house 
of a good lady you know, and whom I 
am certain you will love, Madame de 
Boutaric.” 

Jeanne understood all ; but she had 
neither tears, cries, nor sobs ; only she 
became greener than the grass her little 
feet trod on. “ My poor father !” said 
she, in a tone of deep, almost fierce de- 
spair, “ I will never see him again ! — 
Never any more I Oh, my God !” 

“ You will see him again in Heaven, 
with your mother !” 

“ Oh, that is not the same thing,” she 
murmured. 

Her self-control left her suddenly. 
Burning tears flowed from her eyes. 
Sobs, much more violent from having 
been so long restrained, shook her breast, 
and she threw herself, with her face on 
the ground, before the door of the house. 
The priest, who knew, alas ! too well, the 
weakness and misery of human crea- 
tures, unable to bear for any length of 
time the intensity of such feelings, al- 
lowed this sorrow to wear itself out by 
degrees, from its own excess. In a few 
moments he bent towards the child, and 
with an authoritative sweetness touched 
her gently on the shoulder : 

“Jeanne, get up,” said he; “it is 
your father’s wish.” 

The child rose, and without even try- 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


9 


ing to dry her tears which continued to 
flow, she said : “ Sir, I am ready.” 

In a few moments the priest and the 
child, seated in a miserable country ve- 
hicle, drawn by a Normandy pony, drove 
towards Avranches. 


CHAPTER III. 

T HE Colonel Fab re Herville, after 
rapidly passing the first steps of his 
noble career ; and conquering, whilst 
still young, the grades that promised to 
his ambition the most glorious future, 
had been stopped by a most unlooked- 
for circumstance. A fever, taken in the 
marshes of Algiers, rendered a leave of 
absence necessary, which lasted for two 
years. At* the time when he was about 
to join his regiment, the colonel, who 
was thirty-nine years of age, met near 
Avranches, Mademoiselle de Myrians. 
Of an ancient family, Mademoiselle de 
Myrians was one of those accomplished 
women the world seldom offers us, as if 
to show us that if perfection is a rarity, 
it is not a myth. Nothing had spoiled 
the happy disposition of her sweet na- 
ture. To all her other qualities she 
added the charm of perfect goodness, 
which makes the happiness of those 
among whom we live. Colonel Derville 
understood all the treasures of this ado- 
rable soul, for he confided his future to 
her with a security and abandonment 
that nothing ever disturbed. 

Much younger than her husband, 
Elise nevertheless felt for him a deep 
affection, which, with years, became a 
rare passion. He was everything for 
her, even as she was everything to him. 
It was real conjugal love; a rare phe- 
nomenon in the heart of our old worn- 
out society; conjugal love in its greatest 
height, the most brilliant and the most 
pure. With this radiant serenity, which 
the calm and satisfied conscience alone can 
give, a great poet has said, “ They love 
well who love in sin and fear.” Perhaps 
there may be, for certain natures, unfor- 
tunately, too powerful an attraction in 
those passions where an incessant fear 
intensifies the always-troubled joys. 

The daughters of Adam are also the 
daughters of Eve, and the forbidden 
fruit, although it is no longer offered by 


the serpent, has not the less an irresisti- 
ble attraction. There are others, on the 
contrary, for whom happiness is never 
separated from duty , and to whose heart 
it is necessary to feel its sweetest de- 
sires, sanctioned by Heaven and by earth, 
to be surrounded by the favor of God 
and the respect of men. 

Such a one was Mile. Elise de Myri- 
ans ; she was one of those souls that the 
Northern poets, with a graceful flattery, 
call “ the white souls ;” and like the 
white ermine, she could have taken this 
motto of an old British heraldry — “ A 
stain will kill me.” 

This stain never came. She died in 
her beauty, in her youth, and in the joys 
of her first love. They could give her 
for a shroud, her bridal robe, and place 
in her tomb, instead of the yellow im- 
mortelles, the crown of orange blossoms, 
emblem of the ideal purity of the virgin 
soul. 

Sometimes in the evenings, seated by 
her husband on the doorstep, Elise 
would nurse the little Jeanne, while he 
read aloud. 

In looking at her, with that beautiful 
forehead, those transparent temples, 
with her large eyes veiled by the long 
lashes whose shadows moved on her 
cheeks, one would involuntarily dream 
of those beautiful Madonnas, of the most 
illustrious painters of the Virgin Mo- 
ther ; for whom Raphael exhausted all 
the resources of the divine art, and who 
are for us to-day, in their adorable type, 
the emblem of this fecund purity, and of 
this chaste maternity, of which the Chris- 
tian alone has been able to realize the 
idea upon this earth. 

Mme. Derville’s face was truly the 
index of her soul. Her mind never had 
one thought, nor her heart an emotion 
of which her husband was not the object. 

There are times in men’s lives when 
the entire, deep, exclusive love they in- 
spire in a woman has for them a dear 
value — it is when they reach the end of 
their youth ; when they approach ma- 
ture age ; when they generally cause a 
calm, lasting affection, rather than an 
enthusiastic passion. Then this intense 
devotion of a young and charming girl, 
makes them envied by every one, and is 
for them one of the most delicious of 
flatteries. It brings back to them the 


10 


TIIE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


bright hopes of the past. They feel it 
is their last chance of happiness — an 
unexpected, unhoped for chance, that 
will never return again ; and they seize 
and cling to it with that ardor which all 
departing blessings inspire. 

Have you ever contemplated the last 
rose of the fall ? That pale rose which 
seems already fading on its stem ? It 
has the charm of passing beauty, which 
dies and disappears. A deep, fleeting 
charm — a melancholy symbol of our mo- 
mentary pleasures, our rapid endings, 
onr ephemeral joys. We gather it with 
an involuntary emotion, and we breathe 
its sweet perfume with unexpected plea- 
sure. ThiS symbolizes the whole his- 
tory of this sweet love-marriage. 

Col. Derville had for this young wife, 
who gave herself entirely to him, an un- 
bounded affection — she was everything 
to him, as he was everything to her. 
The little kingdom that she ruled be- 
came his universe. The present caused 
him to forget the future. He forgot 
glory in love, and the white hedges of the 
Bosery bordered his horizon. 

A little girl, born to them in the 
second year of their marriage, completed 
their happiness, and gave the last joy 
which they needed. This happiness, 
deeper than all other human joys. To 
see their love live again in the fruit of 
this same love, to see her increase and 
develop before their eyes, alongside of 
them, between them, this little soul — 
daughter of their soul ! 

A child ! is it not, between two lovers, 
as a living treaty of union ? 

The colonel adored Jeanne, for her 
exact likeness to her mother; Mme. 
Derville, because she felt her husband’s 
love increase after the child’s birth ; or, 
without looking for so many reasons, both 
loved her because she was their own. 
Thus was completed this perfect, harmo- 
nious whole called a the family,” in the 
midst of which our best feelings are de- 
veloped, and which is perfect when the 
father, the mother and the child are 
combined in the same group. A thought 
often found in ancient writings, has 
caused me a vague superstitious terror. 
It represents the gods as jealous of men, 
and with difficulty permitting their hap- 
piness. I am perfectly aware that man, 
according to ancient theology, was not 
created by the gods, but, on the con- 


trary, against their will. Whilst the 
Supreme Being, such as modern theories 
teach, is at the same time a Creator and 
a Father. 

And, alas ! when we see how rapidly 
our few days of allotted happiness es- 
cape, never to return, we unconsciously 
turn towards the ancient belief, and ask 
if it is not possible that a superior an- 
tagonistic power takes a wicked delight 
in blighting our joys in their birth. The 
worm always attacks the most brilliant 
flowers or the most delicious fruit. 

Suddenly, in the midst of her delights 
of mother and of wife, Mme. Derville 
was taken with a mysterious, deep-rooted 
disease, that science soon declared in- 
curable. At first, it was languor and 
depression, but, as it increased, soon 
turned to an unquiet restlessness. The 
disease overcame her, spread through 
her entire system, and resisted all reme- 
dies with a determined obstinacy. In 
watching her incessant walks, one could 
note her steps towards the fatal end. 
Already the eye increased in size, whilst 
the pupil shone with fervent brilliancy 
in the midst of liquid waters. Already 
one could see on her attenuated cheeks, 
blossom those roses of sickness, those 
flowers of death, which foretell the con- 
sumption of human creatures, as the 
violets and primroses herald forth the 
spring. 

Soon the Avranches doctors, frightened 
at the heavy responsibility which such 
an event would bring upon them — an 
event foreseen and inevitable — had the 
modesty to discover themselves power- 
less. But, as these men of the faculty 
never avow such a thing, they took an- 
other road to arrive at the same end. 
They ordered the supreme remedy to 
which, from custom, they always turn 
when all else fails : They spoke of warm 
climates, of the beneficial sun of Pro- 
vence, of the dry air, laden with the 
perfume of oranges, that is breathed in 
the fortunate latitudes of Nice, of Can- 
nes and of Ily^res. Take the young 
,invalid to the South ! 

“ There is nothing serious the matter 
with you, dear child,” said the first doc- 
tor to Mme. Derville, at the end of this 
consultation (he had brought her into 
the world, and loved her as his own 
child), “ only the winter will be hard 
here this year, some teals have come 


TEE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


4 


11 


already from the North Cape — this is a 
bad sign ; our damp air is horrid. It is 
really necessary that you go South 1” 

“You then order me, doctor, the 
only remedy that is not in my power.” 

“ Still it is necessary, dear madam/ ’ 

“That may be, but is yet more im- 
possible !” 

“ And why impossible, my angel ?” 
said the colonel, joining in this little 
discussion. 

“ The word impossible is blotted out 
of the dictionary, when your health and 
happiness are the subject on the tapis.” 

“ Dost thou know, my dear friend, 
what such a voyage would cost ?” 

“ I know only that I love thee,” mur- 
mured the colonel, “ and nothing will be 
too dear that will bring the smile to thy 
lips, and the roses to thy cheeks, and 
the light to thine eyes. For thee I 
would sacrifice my all. Dear Elise, for 
thee I would give my life.” And turn- 
ing to the doctor — 

“ Doctor,” said he, “ we will start 
when you think best.” 

Madame Derville gave her husband 
one of those looks which reward a man 
for every sacrifice. 

“ And Jeanne ?” said she in a moved 
and troubled voice, “ what will we do 
with our little Jeanne ?” 

“Her, indeed ! why we will take her 
along.” 

“ Edward, thou art as good as God !” 
said the poor woman with passionate 
fervor, carrying his hand to her lips 
with an impetuous movement. 

“ Little fool ! is it being good only to 
love thee ?” 

“ Where people are as happy as that,” 
murmured the doctor, in a philosophic 
aside, “ one ought never to die ! 

“ At last, who knows ?” added he, 
shrugging his shoulders. “ All whom 
we condemn are not executed. But the 
poor lady is very ill, in truth.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

C OLONEL DERVILLE was a man 
of action, as most men who have 
served in the army become, and he 
brought into civil life the exactitude 
and promptness of his military^ habits. 

What he once determined he proiiiptly 
executed. Not liking to wait, he never 


made others wait. He took, therefore, 
active measures for their departure. 
The doctor, moreover, allowed him nei- 
ther truce nor rest, telling him that each 
hour’s delay increased the danger — that 
each hour gained gave her a new chance 
for health. Under these circumstances 
one can be sure that Elise’s husband 
did not remain long in Normandy. 

“ Dear doctor, we will leave in two 
days, perhaps to-morrow — this evening, 
if you please; but you give me hope, 
do you not ?” 

“ Most certainly ; only start.” 

After the colonel’s deep sorrow and 
bitter despair, this gave him a ray of 
hope, which raised him, cheered him, 
and gave him fresh courage. He seemed 
to see his dear wife gayer, stronger, 
cured. 

Happy, triumphant, he will bring 
her back to the Rosery, rejuvenated 
and beautiful, to be his joy and comfort 
for haany long years. 

The colonel always believed what he 
desired. We must see how he packed 
in the trunks every thing he thought 
necessary, useful, or only agreeable to 
his wife. In order to add an iota to 
her pleasure, he would have carried 
even the house ! 

Madame Derville followed all these 
busy movements with a sickly smile and 
sad expression. This look and smile 
said, Poor friend, how many useless 
things thou art taking. All this will 
do me no good. Thy wife will never 
see another spring. 

The husband fortunately could not • 
read all this. 

As to Madame Derville, she always 
forgot herself for others. In the an- 
guish of approaching death, she thought 
only of hiding the advance of the fatal 
moment in order to delay the sorrow of 
so dear a friend, and to enchant the last 
moments they spent together. 

It was joy for the husband to leave 
the Rosery, whilst it was profound sor- 
sow for the wife. She felt so certain 
she would never again see the house 
where she was born, where she had 
grown up and tasted the joys of maiden, 
wife, and mother; joys, the most pure 
and deep of all holy affections. In saying 
farewell to it for ever, she bade farewell 
to all her happy life ; she however 
crushed her grief and hid her tears. 


12 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


They started early in October, on a 
cold damp misty morning. A dark veil 
enshrouded all things and hid the view, 
as if to prevent the poor lady from cast- 
ing a last look at all these charming 
scenes, dear to her soul, that her eyes 
would never see again. 

The noble silhouette of Mt. St. 
Michel, this darkness of the place, this 
spouting rock of misty sable, projected 
like a granite gun towards the sand, and, 
vaguely outlined in the mist, seemed a 
phantom rising from the depths of the 
sea to weep. The Rosery weeps for its 
adored mistress. Railroads, which were 
a long time kept away from the beauti- 
ful province of Normandy, on account 
of its devotion to old customs, did not 
then unite as they do now, the North 
and South of France by a union of fire. 

M. Derville, therefore, took a post- 
chaise, to be able to regulate his journey 
according to the health of his dear 
invalid. Perhaps the novelty and change 
of scene brought an agreeable diver- 
sion to the invalid, or, out of grati- 
tude to her husband, she tried to seem 
interested in everything, and showed 
during the journey an animation which 
seemed of the happiest augury to the 
colonel, ever awake for the most favor- 
able symptoms. 

From the first evening he rejoiced at 
having brought her away. The heavens 
were more blue, the climate warmer, 
nature in its entirety more gentle; in 
forty-eight hours they felt the sweet in- 
fluence of the South. The young inva- 
lid’s breast felt a long-unknown sensation 
of health. The journey, broken by fre- 
quent rests, was satisfactory and full of 
promise. With what delicate and charm- 
ing cares the colonel surrounded his 
precious invalid ! how he considered and 
remembered everything ! Everything 
was arranged in advance, so that she 
would have nothing to make her uncom- 
fortable. 

It is only in suffering, that a woman 
can fully appreciate the true worth of 
the man who loves her; she then finds 
the infinity of his tenderness. 

“How good thou art !” Elise would 
say to her husband. “ I wish I could 
repay all thou art doing for me !” 

“You will repay me by getting well,” 
replied the colonel. 


CHAPTER Y. 

I N ten days they reached the Gorges 
d’Olliantes, that oasis of verdure and 
flowers found in the cleft of the rocks. 
The scene was new and glorious for 
those who had only been familiar with 
the pastoral scenery of Normandy. The 
masses of craggy rocks descending to 
unfathomable depths, the broken out- 
lines of a colossal staircase attached to 
a bare and shining wall, all looked like 
the enclosure of a giant’s fortress. 

These grand broken masses, which the 
rain and burning sun have colored in 
some places with tints of red, brown 
and gold, and are speckled here and there 
by the pale green Italian pines, struck 
Madame Derville with open astonish- 
ment. It was such a contrast to what 
she had seen in her own green home. 

On leaving the Gorges, the carriage 
came into a pretty fertile plain, sur- 
rounded by an outline of undulating 
hills which protected its various cul- 
tures. There were fast fields of immor- 
telles shining here and there, like a 
carpet of golden cloth. 

“ Why do they have all these funeral 
flowers ?” asked the young wife, who, 
without being superstitious, could not 
help shuddering on seeing these sad 
emblems of our sorrows and eternal 
regrets, which are raised in the warm 
soil of Provence with such success, that 
they are enabled to , supply the whole 
demand of Europe. 

The colonel, instead of replying, en- 
deavored to turn her attention from 
these sad thoughts by pointing out the 
view. The Mediterranean, seen between 
the hills, shivered like a blue wave with 
the slight breath of the wind. 

“ See, how beautiful !” said he. 

La Provence, which the poet Le Brun, 
that plagiarist of Pindar, has called in 
some place “a perfumed beggar,” dis- 
plays at this season, already cold under 
other skies, a seduction and beauty, 
which strike the inhabitants of the North. 
When with them all is ice and snow, 
here, on the contrary, all is warmth and 
brightness. The soul of woman, more 
given than ours to all emotion, yields 
with much greater ease to happy or un- 
happy external impressions. Elise, na- 
turally sensitive and delicate, rendered 
still more so by her illness, tasted in all its 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


13 


sweetness the charms of this natural 
enchantress. 

She revelled in the South. By their 
deep and varied expression, their chang- 
ing vapors, their ever pale clouds — even 
in their most beautiful days — the skies 
of the North are in perfect harmony 
with the manners and feelings of the 
unjoyous races who exist undisturbed 
under their sad canopy. 

But the heavens of the South, pa- 
vilion of blue, barely tinted with silver 
by the passage of some slight vaporous 
currents, seems made only to shelter the 
feasts and gaieties of man. 

When one has not seen this beautiful 
sky, with its deep blue at the zenith, 
and which, touched by insensible clonds, 
fades away at the horizon into the 
glorious colors of the opal, one has not 
experienced all the joys that can enter 
the soul of man by the eyes. One 
ought to pass life slowly in the midst of 
this unvarying serenity, in this profusion 
of clearness, in this pouring out of bright- 
ness. What inexhaustible riches, what 
incessant beauty, is renewed in these 
two sweet colors ! 

Blue and white ! they approach each 
other, unite themselves, blend together, 
and end by vanishing, the one in the 
other. 

By short easy journeys, resting at 
the most beautiful places, at Hydres, 
where all is warmed by the sun till the 
sea-breeze arrives ; at Cannes, where the 
earth, by its thousand undulations, forms 
so many beautiful nooks, one could call 
them so many lovely nests, expecting as 
their occupants, love and happiness ; 
they at last reach Nice, the place se- 
lected by the (^onel foj their winter 
abode. * * 


CHAPTER VI. 

T HE last of our French conquests is 
also the sweetest. It reconciles us 
to the slightly savage term “ Annexa- 
tion,” that is not precisely understood at 
the Hotel de Rambouillet. What seems 
rather incomprehensible to me, is, how 
it happened that France has gained, by 
its own free election, this delicious little 
corner of the earth ! It would please 
me less if it had run with blood. Nice 
always makes me dream of a beautiful 
creature, that one would receive only as 


a free gift. To coerce her, would take 
away all her value. 

Her inhabitants, feeling as ourselves, 
have avoided giving us the trouble of 
conquering them. They have become 
French at their own desire, and they 
love France because it is their nature. 
Nice is the country of sun and of flow- 
ers, of repose, of indolence, of forget- 
fulness. One could pass life there re- 
peating the languishing verse of the 
‘ song of the slave/ in the opening of 
Galatea : 

“ Ah I but it is sweet to be idlel ” 

In this delightful climate it is a plea- 
sure to exist. 

Overlooking everything, there is a 
terrace which is the glory and fortune 
of Nice — the rendezvous of elegant and 
aristocratic Europe. 

From no other point does the Medi- 
terranean appear under a more charming 
aspect, or her cloth of blue in a more 
brilliant light. Nowhere else do her 
thousand waves seem to break into more 
darling little dimples. 

A little below this terrace, on the 
side of the walk “ Des Ponchettes,” 
which leads to the mountain of Chateau, 
and is shaded from its foot to its highest 
peak by laurels and pines, in a most 
charming situation — in the midst of a 
superb vegetation, where violets grow as 
large as periwinkles, where the mallows 
become shrubs, and the fuchsias trees, 
where the geraniums and laurels form 
miniature forests — M. Derville found a 
beautiful little villa, built entirely of 
white marble, decorated with statues, 
half hidden under such verdure. 

It had been built by a Russian, the 
owner of several thousands of those mise- 
rable serfs, that are called even in this 
day, “ des Ames Morts,” and who live to 
yield their best parts to their masters. 

On a sign from the absolute autocrat 
of all the Russias, the Prince de T. had 
been forced to leave this terrestrial para- 
dise for the frozen infernal regions of 
Siberia ! M. Derville could therefore 
settle his dear wife at once. 

“ How pleasant it is to live here !” 
said Elise, laying her hand on her hus- 
band’s, who was leading her to her cham- 
ber from whence they could see, spread 
before them, the most splendid pano- 
rama in the world. 


14 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


CHAPTER VII. 

S YMPTOMS of improvement for the 
first few days set to rest, in a false 
security, the lawful uneasiness of the 
colonel. But after this short reaction, 
nearly always produced by a change of 
climate, the disease gained the ascen- 
dancy. It progressed with such rapid 
strides that in two weeks all the poor 
husband’s fears returned, more bitter 
from the bright hopes he had nourished. 

Elise clung to life, at the moment it 
was passing away, with that passionate 
ardor so often felt by the dying. Be- 
sides the natural horror which the ap- 
proaching end and the unknown region 
of death inspires in all human beings, the 
wife of a man so beloved and loving, the 
mother of such an adorable child, had 
she not a thousand reasons to desire life 
and fear death ? Death, so bitter, be- 
cause it would separate them ! 

The colonel led one celebrated physi- 
cian after another to his wife’s bedside. 
Consultations succeeded and prescrip- 
tions followed, without producing the 
desired result. As no one likes people 
to die in their village where they have 
come to be cured, they agreed to make 
Madame Derville go to some other place. 
The season was so unusally bad. Nice, 
generally spared, was this year subject 
to violent gusts of the north-west wind 
from the Alps. There was, perhaps, an 
imprudence in braving the caprice of a 
rebellious climate. This opinion was 
conveyed gently by insinuations into 
the ear of M. Derville, who really 
did not know what to do. However, 
the last winds of the hurricanes de- 
parted, wafted over the Mediterranean, 
and Nice soon regained the calm and 
beautiful days which make the charm of 
her sky. They remain. 

But the poor invalid did not rally 
from the too deep shock. She lived, 
languishing, nervous, crushed to the 
heart ; feeling already dead ; so certain 
did her end appear. 

“ Thou canst not save me, my poor 
Edward,” said she to her husband; 
“ which proves alas ! too well ! that love 
is powerless to conquer death \' y 

“ But I am determined to save thee ! 
You do not know what they now assert !” 
“ No, indeed ! Tell me ?” 

“ Well, they assure me that, by some 
fatal exception, the climate this year is 


bad for delicate chests, and that the air 
is now too sharp for thee !” 

“ Dost thou not see,” said she, look- 
ing despairingly at her husband, “ how 
they hunt me from all spots ?” 

“ Oh, no ! my child, they do not hunt 
thee — do be reasonable — they only say 
that the neighborhood of the sea is too 
strong for thee; and that an interior 
village, in a central spot, will suit you 
better, as the atmosphere will not be so 
full of oxygen. What can I do ? It is 
they who speak thus, not I ! I hardly 
understand them ! but they certainly 
speak the truth, for they seem very 
learned men. We will then go to Lyons 
or to Paris, if you like — only get 
stronger.” 

“ Yes, it is that ! only feel stronger !” 
replied she; with a look and a counte- 
nance that chilled the colonel to the mar- 
row of his bones. 

He kissed his wife’s burning brows, 
saying, in a low tone, “ Oh ! Elise, you 
cannot know the sorrow you give me.” 

“ Alas ! it is not my fault ! I must ac- 
custom thee, by degrees, to the truth — 
sad as it is for us both. It is only I who 
will tell thee, love; all the others deceive 
thee. Dost thou not understand ? They 
' are trying to get rid of us — they prefer 
I should not die at Nice. It will have 
a bad effect. An invalid who will die ! 
I shall compromise the reputation of the 
city. Do you not remember that they 
mentioned the other day that this ‘ ill 
wind ’ came only every few years ? * I 
believe they have sent others away as 
they wish to do me ! But I will not 
go !” said she, like a spoiled child. 
“ No ! I will not go ! I will die here 
out of spite 1” 

A tear fell slowly from the colonel’s 
eye, and rolled silently down his cheek, 
but he could not reply. 

At this moment the poor invalid was 
interrupted by a fit of coughing, which 
shook violently her frail frame. This 
attack was long, cruel, and terrible. The 
invalid withdrew her handkerchief from 
her lips all stained with blood, and 
looked silently at her husband. M. 
Derville hid his face against the bed, 
and it required great effort to suppress 
the sobs that shook his breast ! We will 
not record the history of this agony. 
Alternated by days of quietness, and the 
most fearful crises, the colonel, in the 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


15 


depth of his sorrow, followed with too 
clear a sight ever to be again deceived, 
the turns of that drama, whose conclud- 
ing scene would carry away his whole 
happiness. 

The sad truth they had been so cer- 
tain about for a long time, and which 
they had endeavored to disguise by a 
sort of pious fraud, became so evident 
that dissimulation was impossible. Since 
their marriage they had lived in such 
intimate relationship, not only of feel- 
ings but of thought, that this constraint 
had been painful for both. They expe- 
rienced, therefore, even in their agony, 
a sweetness in mingling their tears. 

When two have loved faithfully, loy- 
ally, ardently, when there has been one 
mind for both, and for both only one 
heart, separation, with her stern rigours, 
has a bitterness that nothing can equal, 
that nothing can describe. It is the 
misfortune of all the hardest and most 
severe; it is the misfortune without 
consolation. 

From the time the unmerciful truth 
of this separation was revealed to them, 
both acknowledged its approach ; they 
spoke of it with a calmness in their 
sorrow, which proved how deep that 
sorrow was. 

Elise, especially, as the fatal time 
drew near, gained more and more that 
serenity, which gives a sublime pathos 
to some deaths. She forgot herself in 
thinking of others. 

“ Poor friend ! thou art the most to 
be pitied,” she sometimes said to her 
husband. “ For I go and thou hast 
to remain ! 

“ Still ! you must bear up. I leave 
with thee my ‘ souvenir/ our little 
Jeanne. The poor child will scarcely 
have known her mother. 

“ Thou wilt love her well, Edward ! 
Thou wilt love her now for both of 
us ! and some day she will love thee 
for me.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I T was in the midst of such conversa- 
tions, sad and grave, though melan- 
choly and sweet, that Mme. Derville 
awaited her end. Trying to leave with 
her husband only a sweet remembrance, 
and forcing herself to enchant for him 
2 


the last hours they would pass together, 
as he had charmed all life for her, 
until the last moment she was adorable 
and adored. Never had she seemed 
more worthy of love than at the moment 
love was losing her. 

Notwithstanding all the care with 
which Mr. Derville had surrounded her, 
it seemed to him as if he had not done 
enough for her ; he reproached himself 
with ingratitude and accused himself of 
not knowing the whole value of his 
treasure. He thanked Heaven, kind 
even in its sternness, that permitted him 
to prolong the farewells, to add remem- 
brance to remembrance, and thus to lay 
up those pious relics of tenderness, that 
one enshrines in the very depths of the 
heart. 

One glorious morning in the spring, 
whilst the blue of heaven and that of 
the sea wrestled together for splendor 
and brightness, Mme. Derville felt a sen- 
sation of health. The brightness of the 
day struck her windows joyously. She 
ordered them to be opened, to admit the 
sun’s rays. Jeanne, half naked, was 
playing on the rich carpet at her feet, 
when the colonel came in, carrying a 
large bouquet of roses, that he placed on 
the bed. For sometime the invalid had 
had a very passion for roses, and ea£h 
morning her husband rifled the borders 
and greenhouses of the gardeners of 
Nice. 

“ Dear Edward/’ said she, holding 
out her hands to him, “ Thou art always 
so good !” 

“ How dost thou feel this morning V* 

“ 1 dare not tell thee, almost well !” 

“ My God! If this were true !” 

The little girl ran to see the beautiful 
flowers her father had brought. With 
a movement full of grace, but of a lan- 
guishing grace, for she was in truth 
very weak, taking the child around her 
neck, Elise drew the little head to the 
bouquet, as if she wished to compare 
the roses on her child with those, they 
had gathered for her. The bouquet was 
not fresher than the sweet young face. 
She kissed her daughter on the forehead, 
then, raising herself on the pillow, she 
bent over the half-untied bunch; the 
bunch, with such sweet perfume, such 
lively colors, that it made her seem still 
more pale. 

Some seconds passed without her rais- 


16 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


ing her head. The colonel felt a vague 
terror, for which he could not account, 
even to himself. He spoke to his wife, 
softly at first, and then, as she did not 
answer, a little louder. She remained 
steadily without moving. He touched 
her lightly with his finger. The caressing 
touch, which so often had made her start, 
left her now completely unmoved. This 
frightened him more than all the rest. 
u Elise ! Elise ! speak to me ! Only then 
speak to me,” cried he with a painful 
sob. 

Elise did not speak. He threw him- 
self on the bed, and with a shudder of 
fear, took his wife in his arms, raised 
her, held her straight, leaning against 
his breast. Elise’s lips discolored, her 
forehead was of marble, her cheeks 
white as those of a corpse, and her large 
■eyes extinguished. 

The colonel felt his limbs tremble un- 
der him. ‘‘ My God! my God !” mur- 
mured he, with such a weak voice, it 
seemed like a breath from his lips. He 
knew already, but he still wished to 
doubt; one might say he refused to un- 
derstand the sad truth. He drew his 
wife a little from him as if to examine 
her better. The head fell on his shoulder 
inert, and soon fell back again. This 
time he could doubt no more. Mine. 
Derville was dead ; dead without a 
•cry ; without a convulsion ; without any 
of the usual accompaniments of dying. 
Softly as she had lived, while extending 
her hand to her husband, whilst embrac- 
ing her daughter, whilst breathing the 
sweet perfume of a rose. 

Half lying on the carpet, the child 
placed herself to play with the careless- 
ness of her age. The coldness of death 
•came. M. Derville wished to contend 
with it, yet, for the one he had loved so 
much. He pressed her to him with 
transports of wild passion, lavished on 
her the sweetest names and caresses, 
whose ardor would have reanimated 
her, if the Divine Creator, supreme and 
jealous Master of all things, had not 
reserved to the gift of life to himself 
alone. 

Instinctively, without knowing why, 
Jeanne became afraid and screamed 
loudly. The servants ran into the cham- 
ber from all quarters; they unclasped 
the arms which held so tightly embraced 
the poor dead one, and whilst making 


the husband loosen his hold, they showed 
to the father the child for whom he 
ought still to live. 


CHAPTER IX. 

M DERVILLE’S grief was deep, 
• profound, unending. If friends 
had been near him, I doubt if they could 
have consoled him. He was alone and 
could abandon himself to the bitter 
voluptuousness of his tears. They ran 
at first with a fierce abundance ; but the 
cares and troubles, which drive us to 
the depths of despair, after the dead, 
so much lamented, impose a species of 
truce to their desolation. He desired 
to take his wife with him to that Nor- 
mandy, which she would have loved, so 
much better, never to have left. “ She 
would have been alive now !” said he, 
“ if I had not brought her from her 
accustomed climate to this atmosphere 
so fatal for her lungs. It is I, who have 
killed her ! Soon let us leave ! Dry our 
tears ! I will weep to-morrow — to-day ; 
I have no right to do so.” 

Alone in a strange country, that which 
in France had been only a simple form, 
raised for him each instant the most 
unforeseen difficulties, and the most try- 
ing complications. He was obliged to 
take a thousand steps to obtain the 
requested authorizations. That was not 
all ; he could not without a secret pang 
confide his dear lost one to the hands of 
those, who under the pretext of preserv- 
ing, must first profane her by their con- 
tact. Conquering at last his strong 
instinctive repugnance, he allowed them 
to give her the funeral cares, which pro- 
long the illusion of our fragile beauty, 
for those eyes that do not regard us as 
the inhabitants of another world. He 
then enclosed her in a double coffin of 
oak and lead, and carried her across 
France. Sad journey ! so different from 
the one he had just made with her — 
she living. The sweet words, the dear 
presence, the charming caresses of 
Jeanne was all that could distract his 
sorrow. 

The arrival at the Rosery was not less 
painful than the journey. He felt so 
truly, that the. one. who had been for so 
long its ornament, would leave there 
after her sadness and grief for ever 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


IT 


he reached the entrance of his | ly fulfil by a miracle of balance, the 


When 

house, an inexpressible agony struck his 
heart. The miserable man became as 
pale as death itself. All the village 
waited on him, in order to render with 
him those last supreme duties to a 
woman, that none could know without 
loving. The poor deceased re-entered 
then into her home, in the midst of uni- 
versal respect and sorrow. 

Soon led by the priest, accompanied 
by her husband, followed by their united 
friends, one of God's most charming 
creatures went to take possession of the 
cold abode that is kept for us all, until 
the day when the trumpet of the An- 
gel shall awake for judgment the pale 
troops of the dead ! 

Alone now, in his too large house — 
one, after having been two — Colonel 
Fab re Derville devoted himself entirely 
to his love for Jeanne. To occupy him- 
self with his daughter, was it not to 
occupy himself still with his wife ? 
Elise thus remained the only thought 
of his soul. He was no longer at the 
age when one can begin life again. Be- 
sides, one loved not twice as he had 
loved, and better not to love at all than 
to love less. Even the certainty that 
he felt within of the eternity of his 
sorrow, made him taste the only joy 
he could now appreciate. The one a 
great poet has so well named “ the joy 
of grief." Time could not heal this 
sorrow. Time, that kills so many things, 
could not kill that. It could not act on 
itself. 

The days passed over his grief, which 
remained always the same. He did not 
wish to console himself, for she was no 
more ! However, the necessities of every 
day life; the exactments of practical 
questions, accounts, business; all those 
things, to which poetic, meditative, or 
sentimental organizations attend little 
enough, brought to M. Derville some 
cruel distractions. With his very mode- 
rate pension and the not much greater 
fortune of his wife, the colonel, thanks 
to much order and economy, was enabled 
to live honorably in one of the rare 
counties of France, where the material 
existence had not yet followed the exor- 
bitant rise in the prices of everything, 
that characterized all other places. But 
when one is brought into full face with 
all his obligations, that he must instant- 


chapter of unforeseen accidents, of pro 
fits and of loss, has sometimes the most 
terrible consequences. It upsets in a 
moment the best established calcula- 
tions, and makes that balance, which has 
been so skilfully maintained, between 
the receipt and the expense, lean all at 
once to the wrong side. This is what 
happened in the colonel's house. 

The sickness and the death of his wife 
were not for hii^ a mental catastrophe 
alone. They were also a cause of ruin. 

At first with the hope of curing her; 
later, with the touching, noble desire to 
relieve and soften her last days ; the un- 
happy husband had spared nothing. He 
had paid largely everywhere, without 
counting, without bargaining. The wife 
of a millionaire could not have been sur- 
rounded with more costly attentions. 

He had been forced to borrow the 
money to enable him to take the journey 
to Nice. A Norman banker, perfectly 
acquainted with Avranches, knowing 
nearly to a cent the value of the Rosery, 
and who, perchance, thought he would 
place this charming jewel among the 
wedding presents of a young and pretty 
woman, -whom he intended to marry, 
showing himself very easy as to terms 
when the colonel with an unsuspecting 
volubility made his first overtures, ad- 
vanced the required sum on a simple 
note, at a short date, however. 

“ The man who has time owes no- 
thing," says a proverb, undoubtedly cir- 
culated by dishonest debtors. One signs 
easily before a ready lender, when one 
needs money. Later one will pay — if 
he can ! 

The note matured with a terrible ra- 
pidity. It was presented at his house 
shortly after his return from Nice, while 
he was still entirely engrossed by his 
grief. At such a time, he was incapa- 
ble of the slightest application. How, 
then, could he find the requisite funds 
to redeem his note ? A small landowner 
cannot suddenly provide himself to meet 
unlooked-for demands, as the trader or 
merchant. 

The man of the sword must yield then 
necessarily to the man of money. The 
first note, unpaid, was naturally protested 
— then renewed — but with stricter con- 
ditions — shorter time — fresh forfeiture !. 
— that is of no account ! The matur- 


18 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


ing of the second note found the col- 
onel in no better condition, and the se- 
cond note remained unpaid like the first. 
But this time it bore not a simple pro- 
test. There was authority to confess 
judgment, followed by summons, injunc- 
tion, and execution. In a word, all this 
hideous cortege of formalities and pro- 
ceedings, so marvellously combined to aid 
the creditor to devour more rapidly what 
the Roman law calls, in her energetic 
style, so truly, “the substance of the 
debtor.” 

It is with the fortune of a private gen- 
tleman as with a well-built wall. While 
it remains intact, it seems as if it could 
brave with impunity the assault of all 
destructive agents. But let only one 
stone fall; ruin commences, and is soon 
complete; all gives'way. 

The colonel, who had previously gone 
only to the most honorable houses, those 
who are contented with a moderate pro- 
fit, because they exact before all else 
perfect security, now fell into the hands 
of a lower class of business men, sharp- 
ers and rapacious handlers of money, 
who push the art of deceiving the in- 
experienced to the last limits, abusing 
the weak and distraining the goods of 
the unfortunate. 

In this ever-widening gulf, in this 
series of deficiencies, appearing to yield 
an instant only to gain double strength, 
a fortune is soon swallowed up. That of 
the colonel was soon compromised enough 
to justify the sad presentiments that agi- 
tated his last moments. The shadow of 
approaching ruin mingled on his fore- 
head with the shadow of present death. 
By means of the powers of vigilance, 
precaution, and even of a certain skill 
he had acquired in the contest with the 
sharpers, he had gained, or planned in 
his mind, the way to escape the storm. 
He dead, the storm would burst, as he 
well knew; and he desired that it should 
. mit burst on the innocent, feeble head 
of his poor little Jeanne. This is the 
reason he ordered the cure to take the 
child to the house of the Marquise de 
Boutaric — one of the most commendable 
persons in Avranches — in whose affection 
he had perfect faith. 


CHAPTER X. 

‘TTTHILST on the road through Brit- 
▼ T tany, which leads from Avranches 
to Saint Malo, the priest and child rode 
silently side by side; the one lost in his 
grave thoughts, the other engrossed by 
her young sorrow. We can therefore 
read in advance the letter the colonel 
addressed to the marquise, which the 
little orphan carried to her. 

“ Dear and Worthy Friend : — We will 
meet no more in this world. The doc- 
tors have sentenced me, and I have not 
appealed. You know, dear marquise, 
that death has nothing frightful in it for 
me. Alas ! it has already exhausted on 
me all its blows. It has taken, with my 
dear Elise, all the desires I had to live, 
and it would be truly welcome to me, if 
I did not leave my little orphan. I con- 
fess to you, Jeanne’s future is an object 
of singularly painful reflection. The 
poor child would be absolutely alone in 
the world, if I had not had the happi- 
ness of obtaining your good will. I con- 
fide her to you. It is the legacy that 
my poverty has made to your tenderness. 

Be for her all that I ought to have been; 
all I have not been able to be; and, in- 
stead of losing, she will have gained by 
my death. You alone are capable of re- 
placing her mother. Jeanne is a good 
girl. I believe I can say so without be- 
ing accused of the blind partiality of a 
parent’s affection, for I know what she 
is. I am not ignorant of her failings — 
she is a pupil of nature; she knows the 
leaves of the trees better than the leaves 
of the books. The history of her gar- 
den has always interested her more than 
the history of France. I confess to you 
that she can hardly read. Fortunately, . 
she is only nine years old, and at this 
age nothing is lost. 

“ My fortune, singularly diminished 
by my ill luck, will not suffice to give 
her the education that such a child as 
herself ought to receive. But thanks to 
Grod, the munificence of the state has 
provided largely for the wants of ber 
servants, who like myself are richer in 
honor than in money. 

“ The House of Saint Denis, formerly 
called the House of Saint Cyr, founded 
by our kings, enlarged and developed by 
our emperors, enables us to place ‘ our 
daughters alongside those of princes and 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


19 


of millionaires. As this is the only inher- 
itance I am able to leave my poor child, 
it may perhaps suffice to pay my debt to 
her. The doors of Saint Denis open on 
the world. She must choose, on leaving 
there, the path she intends to pursue. 
It is for that moment especially that I 
solicit your protection and advice. She 
will then require it more than ever. 

“ When you read this letter, I shall 
be no more, and my daughter will be 
near you. Will yqu do me the favor to 
take her immediately to Paris, and in- 
troduce her to the Baron de Noirlieu, 
second clerk to the High Chancellor of 
the Legion of Honor. He has served 
with me and is my friend. M. de Noir- 
lieu is advised of your coming. You 
will pardon me, dear marquise, for thus 
taking your consent for granted. My 
friend will place himself at your com- 
mand, take all the necessary steps, and 
spare you all fatigue and trouble. The 
whole affair can be arranged in a few 
days. 

“ It will not take you longer than one 
week, and you will have rendered me the 
last and greatest service that I could 
ever claim from your goodness. And 
now, my dear and honored friend, thank 
you again, and a long, long farewell un- 
til we meet in the other world, that is 
called ‘ a better world/ and will be 
truly so for me, if I find there again the 
one that I have loved since I have known 
her, that I have mourned since I have 
lost her.” 

Madame de Boutaric was at home 
when the cure called with Jeanne. The 
daughter of the colonel had not spoken 
during the journey; the priest had re- 
spected her grief. When they arrived, 
Jeanne was still bathed in tears. 

The marquise was a tall woman, with 
stiff manners, stern countenance and ab- 
rupt ways — but with a good heart, a 
warm, generous soul. Mme. de Boutaric 
had felt a very true affection for Mme. 
Derville, and almost as great an attach- 
ment for her husband. The colonel had 
not presumed too much on her devotion, 
when he confided to her his little orphan. 
But although the marquise was in truth 
the best person in the world, Jeanne, 
accustomed to the sweet pettings of her 
father, always felt when first near her an 
instinctive, unreasonable fear, but which 
was not the less real. 


Have you never noticed how full the 
soldier is of grace and tender affection 
for the child ? Do you remember the 
bees of the Bible depositing their honey 
in the carcass of the lion killed by Sam- 
son, that Hercules of the Jews? One 
there sees, according to the Holy Scrip- 
tures, sweetness coming out of strength ! 
So, this is what they find in the hearts 
of heroes ; they have the true hearts of 
fathers. M. Derville’s affection possessed 
a charm that Mme. de Boutaric, so per- 
fectly good in other respects, absolutely 
needed. Was this not cause enough, 
that a poor little one raised as Jeanne 
had been, in an atmosphere of perpetual 
adoration, should experience near her an 
instinctive fear? Notwithstanding all 
her efforts, she could not conquer this 
first impression. The aspect of the 
house, moreover — this air of all things — 
to which children are much more sensi- 
tive than is generally believed, increased 
with Jeanne this fearful unconquerable 
feeling. The marquise lived in one of 
those old villas, completely provincial, 
and absolutely ignorant of all the modern 
comforts and elegancies, but which 
breathed still the sternness of past cen- 
turies. There was, above all, a parlor, 
furnished with red leather, protected 
from the too brilliant light of day by 
three curtains hung at the sides of the 
deep windows, decorated with threaten- 
ing arms and discolored portraits of the 
family — all with knitted brows ! When 
the poor little one entered this salon, a 
shudder passed over her and she trem- 
bled from head to foot. She had never 
been there except with her father, and 
only to remain a few moments, certain 
of soon regaining her accustomed nest 
among the flowers, and under the leaves 
of the Rosery. Now, she found herself 
abandoned to a stranger for an uncertain 
period. Ignorant of her destiny — her 
soul still filled entirely with the dark 
scenes that had been unveiled before 
her eyes — she tremblingly seated herself 
in a corner, on the edge of her chair, as 
one who dared not do more, her little 
hands joined on her knees, and her pale 
cheeks wet with the tears she forgot to 
dry. The marquise hastened to appear. 
Economical of her own time, she would 
have reproached herself with wasting 
that of others. She entered quickly, ab- 
ruptly, and went at once up to the priest. 


20 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ Oh ! cur6, is it you ? By what 
chance have you come here, without cry- 
ing make way ? No matter ! here you 
are ! We welcome you ! But, good- 
morning! Are you dumb? How goes 
it?” 

After this flow of words that nothing 
could stop; after these pressing ques- 
tions, to which she did not listen for the 
replies, she suddenly perceived the child. 
She went straight to her, crying as she 
went, and without observing her closely : 

“ You there, also, my gentle Jeanne ? 
always as fresh as a rose — a pretty white 
rose — is it not ? Come, kiss me then ! 
But what is the matter? You look as 
if you had been crying ? You are cry- 
ing now ! What is the matter, my child ?” 

While speaking thus the marquise 
opened her long sinewy arms, and seiz- 
ing Jeanne between her ten thin fingers, 
she drew the fresh little face to hers, so 
angular and tawny, and kissed her on 
both cheeks, with all the demonstration 
of affection a nature like hers could dis- 
play. 

“ Her father is dead !” said the cure, 
in a low tone, who found at last the pos- 
sibility of getting in a word. 

“ Dead ! her father ! the colonel ! My 
poor Derville dead ! How can you say 
so, cure V 

“ Alas ! madame la marquise, I tell 
the simple truth as it is. M. le colonel 
is dead !” 

“Ah! what do you tell me, there? 
Derville ! poor Derville ! It is always 
the best who go !” 

“ Those go whom the good Cod calls ; 
madame, who is so pious, knows that 
better than I.” 

“ Certainly, certainly. Oh ! but I am 
sorry ! And this little one — what will 
now become of her? Oh, I will be a 
mother to her,” continued she, carried 
away by a burst of sincere goodness^, 
which formed a singular contrast with 
her usual sternness, and embracing 
Jeanne again, she pressed her to her 
heart as if she really desired to stifle her. 

“ Madame la marquise, this brave 
colonel had reason not to doubt you,” 
said the good cur6, “ and he has left you 
his daughter as a legacy.” 

“ And I will love her as if she were 
my own,” continued Mme. de Boutaric, 
twisting Jeanne’s hair with her fingers. 

“ Behold the will !” replied the cure, 


handing the marquise the letter that M. 
Derville had given to him in his last 
moments. 

Mme. de Boutaric took the letter, 
read it slowly and with deep attention, 
then gave it to the cur6, saying, “ I be- 
lieve he is right, at any rate he was the 
father ; and we must obey his wishes. 
Heaven inspires the dying ! Will you 
dine with me, cure ?” 

“ It is impossible, madame la mar- 
quise ; a thousand things recall me to 
my parish. I must inform the friends 
of the deceased, and arrange all for the 
interment.” 

“ Then say good-bye to the child, for 
we shall set out to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

F OR two days Jeanne had lived in a 
dream. She had loved her father 
tenderly, and his death had plunged her 
into a stupor ; she had not even strength 
enough left to wish. Accustomed, more- 
over, to passive obedience, and brought 
up to the absolute submission of well- 
reared children, she did not think of op- 
posing the will of the marquise any 
more than that of her father. Still, 
when Mme. de Boutaric had said to the 
cur6, in her slightly dry, and always 
commanding voice (even when the notes 
of compassion and of goodness vibrating 
in her soul should have softened it) : 

“ Embrace the child, for we set out 
to morrow !” a vague feeling of fright 
struck the colonel’s daughter. By an 
instinctive, uncontrollable movement she 
seized in her two little hands the cas- 
sock of the priest, as if beseeching him 
not to leave her — to take her with him. 
The cur6 could not answer this mute ap- 
peal. The child then turned on the 
marquise a humble look, appealing to 
her. Doubtless the stern face of her 
protectress did not encourage her to 
hope for the least change of plan, for, 
without a word, she held her pale cheek 
to the cur6, and received his farewell 
kiss, whilst stifling a big sob. 

The good man then took leave of the 
marquise, after giving her all sorts of 
advice about the orphan, that he knew 
was superfluous, but he wished to relieve 
himself thus, as a last solace to his sor- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


21 


row, and out of his lively tenderness for 
the child. 

“ All right ! all right, my dear cur6. 
But have neither care nor fear,” said 
Mme. de Boutaric, as a kind of adieu, 
“ all that is necessary will be done.” 

The cure saw that the interview was 
ended, and withdrew after saluting the 
marquise with the deep, sincere respect 
that the clergy of the provinces always 
feel to the ancient nobility, in remem- 
brance of their interests so strongly 
united in the past. When the heavy 
door, with the large dark figures, was 
closed behind the priest the orphan felt 
still more abandoned and still more alone 
in the world ; all the ties that attached 
her to the Rosery broke, one after the 
other. Mme. de Boutaric had not, alas ! 
what was necessary to reassure her in- 
quietude and her delicate sense of fear, 
or to calm her vague, deep terrors, and 
soften the bitter sorrow of this young 
and infinitely tender soul. Without 
even asking if the consolations effica- 
cious to her age would equally suit that 
of Jeanne Derville, she placed in her 
hands a big book of prayers, led her 
into the chapel, and pointing out the 
prayers for the dead, said : 

“ Pray for your father, my child !” 

The colonel had said truly. Jeanne 
hardly knew how to read. It was in 
vain she spelt without understanding 
the sense, those grand lamentations and 
psalms of desolation by which the church 
tries to console our grief by aiding us 
to express it. Happily night came and 
brought sleep — the mighty consoler of 
childhood, which closes so easily their 
eyes even when they are full of tears. 
It is said no trial is spared to those who 
enter life under such rude auspices. 
As Jeanne was entering the carriage 
the next morning, a domestic announced 
Jacqueline. The robust countrywoman 
came from the Rosery on foot, having 
walked the whole way alone, and part 
of the time at night, to embrace her 
young mistress for the last time. Jac- 
queline, a native Bretonne, still young, 
belonged to that type of servants be- 
coming more and more rare in our 
days, who, truly attached to their mas- 
ters, look upon themselves as belonging 
to the house, and who make up for some 
inconveniences and faults by a sincere 
endless devotion ! She had been like a 


| mother to the poor little orphan, and 
lavished on her all the cares her tender 
age and delicate health demanded ; 
loving her like her own child, and 
drawn to the poor little one by her 
very anxieties and cares for her. It is 
even thus the souls of truly good nurses 
are captured. 

When Jacqueline heard Jeanne was 
going to this terrible Paris ! of which 
the provincials formerly held such 
strange ideas, and which still cling to 
them, and will for a long time, holding 
it as a mysterious bugbear, she could 
not control the violence of her feelings, 
nor the fear mixing with her sorrow. 
So, when the cure told her the fatal 
news, her determination was to hasten 
to Avranches. Prudence and the good 
sense of the marquise advised her to 
spare Jeanne a scene as painful as it 
was useless. She therefore wished to 
avoid the interview. But Jacqueline 
was already there, filling the house with 
her lamentations; and it would have 
been too cruel to send her away without 
permitting her to embrace^ for the last 
time, the little one she had loved so 
intensely, and to whom she was still so 
devoted. 

“Where is this woman ?” asked Mme. 
de Boutaric of the servant who had 
announced the arrival of the colonel's 
servant. 

“ Here, Mme. la Marquise, in the 
ante-room.” 

“ Tell her to come in.” 

The marquise, all prepared for her 
journey, was muffled up in her travel- 
ling dress, her carpet-bag at her feet, 
and holding in her hand a leather case, 
enclosing what was too large for a sun- 
shade — too small for an umbrella, and 
which was covered with puce-colored 
silk, mounted on a handle of holly, cut 
from her own garden, firm, solid, thorny 
— a faithful enough emblem of her own 
character. 

Standing at the corner of the ancient 
monumental fire-place, which was sculp- 
tured in stone and surrounded with two 
armed, helmeted men, one could see in 
her attitude how proud and imperious 
she felt. She had assumed her grand 
air and terrible look (of an uncertain 
shade between gray and red, as it were), 
of which the whole of Avranches 
dreaded the Olympian movement. 


22 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Her nervous hand kneaded the han- 
dle of the leather case, and her feet beat 
on the inlaid floor a measure too abrupt 
not to be irregular. 

A few steps away from her Jeanne 
stood near a large console table, nearly 
up to her chin, crumbling a roll silently 
into a glass of warm milk. 

The marquise had hardly uttered the 
words “ Let her come in,” before the 
door opened with a sort of clatter. 
Jacqueline hurried headlong into the 
parlor like a hurricane into a valley 
through a mountain gap ! To this igno- 
rant body Mme. de Boutaric was with- 
out posture or expression. This rustic 
did not even seem to see her; and she 
advanced or rather jumped towards 
Jeanne Derville, threw her arms around 
her and raised her from the earth as if 
she had been a feather. 

“It is then true? It is then true, 
Jeanne, that thou art going away ?” 
said she, looking at the child with her 
large eyes all red from incessant weep-* 
in §’- 

The orphan, instead of replying, 
turned towards the marquise. 

Jacqueline understood that the little 
one was not acting as she desired^but 
under the will of another, and one she 
must also obey. 

She now turned to the marquise, 
joining her hands and saying, in a 
humble voice and imploring accent, 
“ You are the one who is taking her 
away ! Why do you take her from me ?” 

The marquise was so entirely unac- 
customed, to any familiarity from this 
class of persons, that she did not at first 
dream of replying. Her astonishment 
rendered her mute ! 

It did not seem as if she was speak- 
ing to her; and she looked at Jacqueline 
as if she were some curiosity. 

A person is always ready to believe 
what they desire. Jacqueline, seeing 
that the marquise did not reply, thought 
that her prayers and tears had touched 
the heart of her who desired to take 
away her little Jeanne. If Madame de 
Boutaric remained silent, it was simply 
because she could not refuse her prayer. 

With this firm conviction she com- 
menced again. “ You will leave her 
with me, madame, will you not V ’ 

This time the marquise was spoken to 
so directly it was impossible not to reply. 


But still, under the influence of the 
astonishment, caused by this audacious 
insolence of a servant, she turned a 
little, and looked at Jacqueline taking 
a three-quarters attitude that made her 
particularly majestic. But a daughter 
of Nature, such as Jacqueline, engrossed 
by her violent emotions, could not even 
be impressed by the rather poetic grand- 
eur of that which the artists call a 
“ profile perdu.” 

She saw nothing, absolutely nothing, 
of all that! She saw only her Jeanne, 
whom they wished to take away from 
her, and whom she wished to keep. She 
therefore continued her supplications, 
mingled with her tears. 

Madame de Boutaric was learned in 
physiognomy, and could distinguish a 
true from a false expression. She was 
struck with the sorrow, deep affection, 
and ardent devotion expressed in the 
angular face of this poor Bretonne, where 
she also saw truthfulness and loyalty. 
It was a face that could not lie. Instead 
of annihilating this impertinent crea- 
ture by some haughty address, she spoke 
to her, on the contrary, with gentle 
kindness. 

“ My noble girl,” said she, “ it is very 
right in you to feel so much interest for 
your young lady, and I respect you for 
it. But you should understand I take 
as much interest in her as yourself ; 
only I am the best judge of what is for 
her good. If Mile. Derville leaves the 
Rosery, it is because she ought to leave 
the Rosery. I am aware of the colonel’s 
deep love and respect for you. Learn, 
then, that he himself, when dying, has 
desired the departure of his daughter. 
I only fulfil his wishes.” 

“ Ah ! the poor, good gentleman ! 
May God aid his soul ! How could he 
wish such a thing ? 

“ He has wished it for the happiness 
of his daughter.” 

“ Happiness is to he loved, and who 
will love her like I love her ?” 

“ It is not enough to be loved ; one 
must also love with intelligence, and un- 
derstand the true interests of those we 
love !” 

“ Who will take care of her in this 
frightful Paris ? 

“ Do not be troubled about that. I 
will place Mile. Derville in an establish- 
ment where she will need nothing.” 


THE PUPIL OF TIIE LEGION OF HONOR. 


23 


An attentive observer would now have 
noticed in the marquise's tones a growing 
impatience. Her calmness and mode- 
ration, not her ruling qualities, were 
being put to a rude trial. This trial 
must not last much longer. Moreover, 
seeing that she gained nothing by her 
sweetness and concessions over this per- 
sistent and excited spirit, she felt dis- 
posed to try her authority, and she did 
so with her natural energy. 

“ Jacqueline, listen to me. I take 
Mile. Derville away because I choose to 
do so ; and I choose to do so, because it 
is my duty. Let this satisfy you !" 

Perhaps this did not absolutely suffice 
for Jacqueline; but the marquise’s tone 
admitted of no reply, and she dared not 
raise any more useless objections in the 
presence of this determined manner. 
She was therefore silent, but sobbed in 
such a frightful manner, with a ferocious 
violence, as positively frightened Mad- 
ame de Boutaric. 

Determined and cold as right itself, 
the marquise had a profound horror of 
all that was false, useless, and exagge- 
rated. But her loyal nature made her 
respect in others all that which seemed 
honest and sincere. Although she was 
much annoyed by Jacqueline's obsti- 
nacy, she could understand the quick 
irritability of her nature, and her only 
reply to the poor girl’s passionate rage 
was a gesture that seemed to say, what 
can I do, since the fault is his ? 

From the time her nurse (I use de- 
signedly this childish tender expression) 
had come into the parlor, Jeanne had 
ceased eating her slight repast, that was 
to support her through the day, and 


listened attentively to all that Jacqueline 
and Madame de Boutaric said, with an 
overflowing heart, which she for a long 
time restrained. But hearing the sobs 
of this devoted soul, who for so many 
years had lived with her and for her, 
she could contain herself no longer, but 
threw herself into the arms of her faith- 
ful Bretonne, with a burst of affection 
that would make a mother’s heart trem- 
ble to the core. Both for an instant, 
though separated by their different sta- 
tions, yet drawn together by their mu- 
tual affection, confounded their tears 
and mingled their caresses. 

“ Ah," said the marquise, “ I see the 
little one knows how to love and to win 
love. Can this be the secret of happi- 
ness ? Is it not rather the deadly peril 
of women’s existence ?" But it was not 
a habit of Madame de Boutaric to 
waste much time in philosophical or 
moral reflections. 

She touched Jacqueline with the end 
of her case, speaking only one word, 
“ Enough !" 

The diligence was already at the gate. 
The marquise took Jeanne’s hand, say- 
ing, “ Come, my child !" The daughter 
of the colonel consequently detached 
herself from Jacqueline’s embrace and 
followed, looking constantly back at the 
poor Bretonne, who had been for so 
many years the guardian of her life. 

A few moments later the heavy ma- 
chine, well named in being called the 
diligence, rolled over the pavements, 
causing them to groan under its weight, 
and, drawn vigorously by its six pampered 
dapple-gray horses, carried our heroine 
to her unknown destiny. 


24 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


BOOK I. 


CHAPTER I. 

T HE sorrows of childhood are gene- 
rally on the surface of the heart. 
It is only as we grow older that sorrow 
throws her deep roots into the centre of 
our being. 

Trials are always proportioned to the 
strength of those to whom they are 
sent. A merciful Providence tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb. 

Jeanne Derville had never experi- 
enced the sensations of a journey. Le 
Mont Saint Michel had bounded the 
horizon of her life, and the clocks of 
Avranches were her pillars of Hercules. 
I do not refer to her sad trip to Nice, 
with her mother, whom she lost there, 
for she was then too young to remember. 
Now she knows how to observe, how to 
understand. The journey would then, 
whether she wished it or no, have for 
her an all-powerful attraction — a serious 
interest. One has truly said : “ The 
door of the carriage which takes us on 
a journey is a window which opens on 
the world. Each turn of the rapid 
wheels displaces one centre of observa- 
tion, and every moment we see the 
varied prospects open and withdraw." 

The lively impressions of a journey 
snatch us from our preoccupations, take 
us out of ourselves and enter our whole 
nature. This is the reason, that in 
many diseases which have moral causes 
for their roots, experienced doctors 
usually advise travelling. They wish to 
cure the soul before they undertake the 
cure of the body. 

La Marquise de Boutaric thought 
thus, whilst from her corner observing, 
silently and earnestly, Jeanne's counte- 
nance. At her age, she reflected, im- 
pressions are naturally fleeting ; one 
effaces the other. God has thus willed 
it. She has undoubtedly grieved much 
for- her father, but these youthful griefs 
are quickly forgotten. Tears swift to 
run are swiftly dried. 

The two ladies had the coup6 of the 
diligence to themselves. Whilst they 


were enclosed by the straight streets of 
the town, Jeanne remained immovable 
in her corner, where she had taken 
refuge, trembling, frightened, like a 
bird palpitating in the hands of her 
captor. But when she was in the open 
country, and saw the superb panorama 
that unrolls itself under the walls of 
Avranches — hills, with their pliant out- 
lines waving softly; laughing fields, 
clear rivers* drawing arabesques through 
the green dress of the meadows ; 
branches of trees, waving here and 
there like a plume of feathers, reflecting 
the blue of the heavens in the blue of 
the sea, where the wind raises, every 
moment, the little waves, with their 
light crests, which are soon dispersed in 
a crown of light. 

Jeanne Derville, who had always lived 
near nature — I mean with the love of it 
in her heart — and, therefore, especially 
alive to its beauty, slid softly from her 
seat and pressed against the window- 
pane her young fresh face. The sun 
which, until this moment, had hidden 
obstinately in the morning fogs, burst 
his veil of clouds and threw his glory 
on awakened nature. Jeanne looked 
with her whole soul in her eyes, where 
now there were no more tears. One 
would say that her interest had swal- 
lowed up her sorrow. 

“ Heaven is good," thought La Mar- 
quise. “ It consoles her." 

They soon reached the first relay. 
Before the post house there was a great 
confusion of postillions, horses and boys. 
The smoking horses were detached and 
fresh ones replaced them ; some travel- 
lers got out, others ascended — the cou- 
ductor scolding everybody a little. 
Jeanne remained immovable at the door. 

“ How it interests her ! The charm 
works!" thought Mme. de Boutaric, 
and she remained quiet. 

They started again, the child yet silent. 

“ There is too much of this," mur- 
mured the marquise^ “ One would say 
she has become a statue." They entered 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


25 


into a road enclosed on both sides by 
large trees and Norman hedges like a 
wall, which entirely shut out the view. 

“It is not the scenery that distracts 
her now,” thought the old lady; and, 
as she really feared this obstinately pro- 
longed silence, she touched Jeanne 
lightly. 

Jeanne started at the touch as if she 
had received an electric shock, but did 
not turn. The marquise forced her to 
show her face — it was bathed in tears. 

“ Hum !” said she, softly ; “ the little 
one is not so easily consoled as I first 
thought.” And then she added, aloud : 
“ What are you thinking about, little 
one ?” 

“ Of my father, madame.” 

How could one reply to that ? How 
desire to stop tears flowing from such a 
source ? The marquise did not try — she 
let them flow. However, at the end of 
a few moments she said there must be an 
end to all things, and drawing the child 
gently to her she dried the great red 
eyes. “ See, poor little one, that life is 
one long succession of sorrows, and the 
only means to soften them is to resign 
ourselves to the will of G-od ; of God 
who loves us and sends all these sorrows 
for our good 1” 

A village clock, as they were passing, 
struck ten. 

“ They are now burying my poor fa- 
ther,” replied Jeanne, with a sob that 
tore her breast. 

The marquise was much moved. “Ah ! 
you loved him well, my dear child,” 
said she gently; “ and I know he loved 
nothing in the world so much as you. 
It is then right to obey all his wishes, in 
order to keep him alive in your dutiful 
and loving soul. If he were here, he 
would forbid you to cry as you have 
done.” 

“ Ah, madame ! I would not cry if he 
were here ! ” 

“ He is always here in thought and 
affection, my poor child. God, who is 
also a Father, permits him to interest 
himself still in you. Believe it truly, 
Jeanne, from the heaven where he now 
is, he is disturbed about his daughter. 
He looks at her ; he sees her cry — cry 
too much — and he would say, if she 
could hear : 1 This is not well, Jeanne — 
you are unreasonable — you give me pain 
— I expected better of you/ ” 


“ He says always 1 thou/ madame,” 
replied the child. 

“ And he will say 1 thou' yet, my 
child, but on condition that thou wilt be 
more wise, and that thou wilt cry no 
more.” 

Jeanne silently dried her tears with 
the back of her hand; and with a 
strength of will that-, Could not have 
been expected at her age, she subdued 
her sorrow and listened to all the mar- 
quise pleased to say. Words suited to 
her age, exhortations marked with kind 
judgment and true practical wisdom. 

With all sorts of tender precaution 
and almost maternal delicacy, Madame 
de Boutaric showed her the imperative 
necessity of working hard at her school, 
in order to support herself in the future. 

“ It is to you, my little one,” she said 
in conclusion, “ to whom will be con- 
fided the care of your life. Your life 
will be what you please to make it-. But 
if you aid yourself, heaven will'aid you, 
and friends will not be wanting. The 
state, to which your father has been gone 
of the most faithful servants, takes charge 
of your education. It will raise you as 
is raised the daughter of a prince. It 
is for you to acknowledge its goodness, 
by doing your best to profit by it” 

Jeanne’s answers, full of tact and 
natural spirit, showed she understood 
the real importance of the marquise’s 
words, and wished to, profit by her ad- 
vice. 

The journey, long enough, at last 
came to an end without accident of in- 
cident. After having been imprisoned 
for two days and nights in a rolling box, 
the two travellers arrived at last in the 
middle of Paris. 

CHAPTER II. 

A CCUSTOMED to the deep silence 
of the country and the profound 
peace of nature, Jeanne felt singularly 
bewildered by the noise and tumult of 
the great city. The incessant movement 
of the men with their rapid steps, tak- 
ing the luggage without looking at the 
persons, frightened her, and she drew 
near the marquise. Mme. de Boutaric 
did not give her much time to look 
around ; for, taking her hand, she got 
into a carriage and was driven to a quiet 
hotel, where her family usually stayed. 


26 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


In her little back room Jeanne found 
herself almost as quiet as at the Rosery. 
The distant noise of vehicles recalled 
the vague and dying murmurs of the 
sea on the strand of Mount Saint Michel, 
which she had so often heard unseen, 
whilst talking to her father, under the 
arbor of clematis and jessamine. 

The marquise only unpacked a few 
things, for, as she said to herself, she 
did not intend indeed “ To make long 
bones in the capital.” She breakfasted 
in great haste with Jeanne, and with all 
her things at hand for a start afterwards. 
As she found the child fatigued and pale 
from the journey, she put her to bed. 
When she saw her asleep, and as if 
she herself had also been refreshed by 
this identical sleep, she started instantly 
and on foot (in order to bring back her 
circulation) to the grand chancellor of 
the Legion of Honor. She asked for M. 
de Noirlieu, the colonel's friend, who had 
already been notified of her visit by the 
almost posthumous letter of Jeanne's 
unfortunate father. 

The marquise was introduced at once 
to the presence of the second official. 

M. Le Baron de Noirlieu was both a 
warm-hearted and business man. He 
combined the most noble, devoted feel- 
ings with a practical good sense which 
led him at once to the bottom of affairs. 
From his first word, the marquise per- 
ceived a nature similar to her own, and 
one with which it would be easy for her 
to come to an understanding. 

They immediately recited the facts of 
the case. In a few minutes all was set- 
tled, Jeanne’s papers prepared, requiring 
only the signature of the grand chan- 
cellor. “ I will see his excellency at 
four o'clock, and if madame la marquise 
will do me the favor to take a modest 
family dinner with me this evening — 
‘ pot-luck,’ as the good people say — I will 
then hand you the admission papers, 
whilst becoming acquainted with your 
little protegee.” 

“ It is arranged,” said the marquise ; 
“ but do not put yourself out of the 
way, for you will then disoblige me very 
much. I accept in order to show you 
the child. I assure you she is charming.” 

M. de Noirlieu did not live far from 
their hotel. As the clock struck six, 
Mme. de Boutaric entered a small apart- 
ment, that would have gone bodily into 


her saloon at Avranches. She was wel- 
comed with a respectful cordial hospi- 
tality. Jeanne found some children of 
her own age, and this made a delight 
for her. Timid and reserved, as chil- 
dren brought up alone generally are, she 
was gradually put at her ease by their 
good manners, gentleness and amiability. 
The evening seemed short to her, and the 
marquise saw with pleasure the fresh 
color come again to her cheeks, whilst 
brightened by childish sports. 

The next morning, Mme. de Boutaric 
presented herself, with the colonel's 
daughter, at the gate of the Imperial 
House of Saint Denis. 


CHAPTER III. 

S AINT DENIS ! What grand, noble 
remembrances this name alone re- 
calls ! And what a happy thought, to 
give, for an asylum to the daughters of 
glory, the national patronage, in the 
shape of this old monastery, which is so 
intimately united to the origin of the 
French monarchy ! Three dynasties of 
kings sleep their last sleep under the 
shadow of these circular arches. The 
greatest of our past dramas have un- 
rolled their plots in the shadows of these 
cloisters. A monastery before becoming 
a young ladies' school ! The old abbey, 
ardent centre of religious discipline and 
human science, throwing a torch of light 
on the annals of France ! The chroni- 
cle of Saint Denis is the mother of our 
history. A few dwellings grouped in the 
fifth century of the present era, around 
the tomb of the apostle to the Gauls, 
were the first nucleus of the city. The 
remembrance of Genevieve, the shep- 
herdess, whose crook, more powerful 
than the sword of the Roman emperors, 
stopped the barbarous triumphant march 
of Attila — the richness of this poetical 
reflection brightens the chaste and beau- 
tiful countenance of the patroness of 
Paris. 

In the seventh century, Dagobert, of 
popular renown, founded the Basilic, 
since then enlarged, revived, repaired so 
many times. 

He called there a number of monks, 
chosen from the most celebrated con- 
vents ; and this holy colony — in the 
mystic garden of the cloister — gathered 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


27 


the austere flowers which are unfolded 
under the Benedictine rule. 

During the bloody night and the long 
convulsions of the Dark Ages, Saint 
Denis, in her blessed peace, preserved 
all the germs of doctrine and of science 
ready to burst forth at a more propitious 
hour. 

Abelard, a name dear to women, came 
there to hide his glory and his sorrows, 
and that nothing might be wanted for 
the completeness of her renown, the 
Thaumaturgy decreed to her the reputa- 
tion of working miracles, which set the 
last seal to the celebrity of this religious 
sanctuary. Rich with honors, possessing 
immense estates, free from the jurisdic- 
tion of the Archbishop of Paris, report- 
ing only to the Pope, younger sister of 
the royal authority, the abbey of Saint 
Denis might be regarded as the type and 
model of those grand oases of the 
Christian world, which open so nobly for 
the conquered by fate, those without 
hope in life, or those who have no longer 
a place amongst men, to wit, those who 
are eaten up by the zeal of their voca- 
tion, or those who are tortured by the 
remorse of inexpiable faults. 

Long centuries passed, during which 
Saint Denis pursued in peace her noble 
destiny. 

Suddenly, the revolution of 1789, 
which is called especially “ The Revolu- 
tion,” burst on France, on the whole 
world. Its irresistible hands opened the 
modern era. Soon, society, travailing 
with new civilization, felt herself trou- 
bled to the centre of her existence ; soon 
the threatening echoes resounded in the 
peaceable walls of the cloisters. The 
old monks looked tremblingly at each 
other and feared the worst evils. Mean- 
while, the constituent assembly, imagin- 
ing they would render men more free 
by depriving them of certain liberties, 
abolished, by a first decree, the old mo- 
nasteries, suppressed religious communi- 
ties, secularized their members, and con- 
fiscated their wealth. 

It was thus, forsooth, that they pre- 
pared the reign of Liberty, Equality, and 
of Human Fraternity. But revolutions, 
in their descent, stop not of themselves. 
A second decree completed the first. 
This declared the basilic of Saint Denis 
to be a parish church, and replaced the 
monks by a secular clergy. 


A little later, quatre-vingt-trieze (’93) 
lighted her torches and gave the signal 
of sacreligious profanation. They pil- 
laged the treasury of Saint Denis. They 
violated the majesty of the royal tombs. 
The city of the venerable apostle of the 
Gauls lost half her name, and was called 
in the new vocabulary, “ Denis Franci- 
ade !” The decades of the Goddess of 
Reason, with their grotesque ceremonies, 
succeeded the pomps and splendors of 
the Catholic religion. But the fall was 
not yet deep enough ! The church after 
being a temple — the Temple of Reason — • 
became an artillery depot, next a moun- 
tebank theatre, and a foraging magazine. 
This was not all ! They tore down the 
large glass windows ; they broke the ar- 
chitectural ornaments ; they melted the 
sacred vases ; they demolished the roofs; 
and, notwithstanding the word of Him 
who has said : “ My house is a house of 
prayer,” and “ Man does not live by 
bread alone,” they erected a hand-mill 
in the place of the overturned altar. 

But evil always perishes by its own 
excess. The Revolution having de- 
stroyed those she called her enemies, 
had ended, like the ancient Saturn, to 
whom she is so often compared, by de- 
vouring her own children. 

Now, however, a powerful restoring 
hand extends itself already over France. 
Understanding the disorders of anarchy, 
it gives to itself the task of reconciling 
the advances of the modern world with 
what there was of truth and goodness in 
the old traditions, the excellency of 
which had survived so many centuries 
through the alternations of prosperity 
and misery. 

The Revolution believed it a duty to 
abolish (as contrary to the principle of 
equality — her imperious motto') all the 
honorary titles of the ancient chivalry, 
founded, it is true, for the most part on 
the aristocratic privilege of birth. 

The constituent assembly had com- 
menced by suppressing all exterior 
marks expressive of distinction of caste, 
thus perpetuating the antagonism of 
the races. The Cross of Saint Louis, 
the highest military decoration, at first 
was left to the army. But the conven- 
tion, under the intense pressure of the 
revolutionary committee, decided that 
all officers who did not at once resign 
these insignias of their order to the 


28 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


municipal authority, by this one act 
would be suspected. And at that time 
to be suspected, was a crime which 
merited death. 

Worn out by the bloody convulsions 
of anarchy, frightened by the excesses 
of a liberty of which she had tasted 
only the bitter fruits, France took re- 
fuge in glory with Bonaparte. 

It has been truly said : “If all 
honorary orders were destroyed, the im- 
mortal thought which had created them, 
transmitted from race to race, from cen- 
tury to century, notwithstanding the 
proscription, would endure for ever.” 

Taking what was true in the idea, 
and appropriating it to the exigencies 
and needs of the new era, persuaded 
when one takes from man all their ener- 
gies and their devotion, it is necessary 
to make them forget, by glory and dis- 
tinction, the sacrifices asked of them, 
he who held in his strong hands the 
destinies of the modern world, insti- 
tuted “ The Order of the Legion of 
Honor,” founded only on personal merit, 
and dying with the receiver. It was, ,as 
he himself said, “ The way to make 
heroes with a rattle.” What difference 
does the means make, provided the end 
is gained ? At first all were astonished, 
and in certain saloons where the remains 
of the old clubs were gathered, they 
ridiculed the new institution. Some 
old Republicans, whose prejudices far 
surpassed their intelligence, grumbled to 
themselves. But soon this creation of 
the First Consul was received with great 
favor, and surrounded him with an irre- 
sistible prestige. One felt happy to die 
for an end of ribbon. Was not this tha 
triumph of ideas over reality ? of spirit 
over matter ? of the soul over the body ? 

In those times of heroic exploits, it 
was chiefly from the midst of the ranks 
of the army, that the Legion of Honor 
recruited her glorious battalion. 

But death mowed each day among 
the braves. Many young orphans whose 
fathers had fallen in battle, called for, 
and merited the care of the state. 
An education, strong, serious, brilliant, 
fitting them for the most humble and 
the highest spheres — such was the por- 
tion offered by France to the daughters 
of those who had died for her sake. 

The 4th of December 1805, at 
Schoenbrunn, in the palace of the con- 


quered, in the midst of the joys and 
sorrows following the victory of Aus- 
terlitz, bought with the price of gene- 
rous blood, Napoleon, Emperor, signed 
the first of the numerous decrees sent 
to him in behalf of the orphan daughters 
of the Legion. 

This first decree opened to them three 
houses that they could not enter before 
seven nor after ten years of age; each 
house capable of accommodating one 
hundred scholars. 

In 1810, six years later (and during 
these six years, sword and fire had often 
thinned the Legion’s ranks, soon re- 
formed from the regiment) they doubled 
the number of educational houses des- 
tined for the daughters. 

These houses were intended to receive 
not only the daughters of the dead, but 
also those whose fathers were called out 
of France in the service of their country. 
The pupils were taught to read, to write, 
to count, and all the duties and accom- 
plishments of their sex. They had a 
useful profession placed before them, and 
they could thus acquire independence, 
which is often for a woman the greatest 
safeguard of her dignity. 

The ladies of the congregation of the 
M&re de Dieu were placed in charge of 
the institution of the Legion of Honor. 

St. Denis consisted of six houses de- 
signated by the Emperor; and the Le- 
gion of Honor was put in possession of 
it, as they had already been of the an- 
cient abbey, then organized into a mili- 
tary hospital. It was immediately filled 
with the daughters and young sisters of 
the generals and marshals of the Em- 
pire. Napoleon favored Saint Denis. 
Hortense, Queen of Holland, his dear 
adopted daughter, was made its enlight- 
ened protectress. They decided that 
scholars should not leave before eighteen, 
nor remain after twenty years of age. 
They desired the scholars should be old 
enough to receive the finishing touches 
of their education, and yet young enough 
to seize all the chances of happiness that 
life offers them. 

The interior organization of the house 
was arranged on a grand plan. Six dig- 
nitaries ; six ladies of the first class and 
twenty dames of the second class, were 
placed under the higher orders of a super- 
intendent of the administration and in- 
struction. The ladies were obliged to sign 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


29 


engagements for ten years, which were 
renewed for an equal period when they 
passed from one class to another. The 
dignitaries engaged for their whole life. 
The seclusion imposed at first only on 
the ladies, extended soon to the dignita- 
ries. The right of entering into the 
house belonged only to the chief of the 
state, to the princes and princesses of 
the blood, to the grand dignitaries of the 
Empire, to the Grand Almoner, to the 
Archbishop of Paris, and to the Grand 
Chancellor of the Legion of Honor. 

The ritual of the chapel admitted the 
solemn glory of the Catholic worship. 

We must narrate of all — even, alas! 
of the dead ! Death, so mournful in 
infancy and youth ! We then weep for 
those who ought to weep for us. A 
dark enclosure was reserved in the inte- 
rior of the Abbey for death’s victims — 
where they can repose in eternal peace 
before experiencing the trials of the 
world and the weariness of life. One 
day in the year was devoted to their 
loved memory, and taught those yet full 
of life and their hopes of the future, to 
celebrate the Feast of the Dead. 

They did not fix the epoch of this 
touching ceremony in the gloomy season 
— when the days are bad and the leaves 
fall, as if to warn us that we shall fall 
like them — but, on the contrary, they 
celebrate the feast of the youthful dead 
in the smiling month of flowers ; in the 
midst of the blooming joys of reawakened 
nature. At a time in J une, most lovely 
of months, which sees spring finished 
and summer commencing, throwing over 
all her sweetness and her joyousness; 
when the birds sing in all the trees ; 
when the earth appears embelished in 
order to celebrate the ever-eternal re- 
newal which perpetuates existence — the 
pupils of Saint Denis ought to pray on 
the grassy tombs of those who were no 
more ! 

In April, 1814, when the hour of 
terrible reverses had already sounded for 
France, when she felt herself exhausted 
of gold as well as blood, the two great 
houses of the Legion of Honor were 
united into one — Saint Denis absorbed 
Ecouer, the last inheritance of her 
daughter. Soon the Empire foundered 
in the gulf of Waterloo, and the prodi- 
gious elevation of the Man of Destiny 
seemed to have been designed only the 


better to measure his downfall. The 
counter revolution conquered the Revo- 
lution ; the old ideas became again the 
mistress of the world. 

The Restoration, which more than 
once tried to efface all vestiges of the 
Empire, had nevertheless the wisdom to 
preserve the institution of Saint Denis. 
It established for the dignitaries and 
the ladies a decoration resembling the 
cross of the noble chapters, and of which 
the ribbon resembled that of the Legion 
of Honor. Some wore them like a cross; 
others had only a rosette. The last class 
were contented with a simple chevalier’s 
knot. The superintendent alone had the 
ribbon of the Grand Cross. Fifteen 
grand chancellors of the Legion of 
Honor and five superintendents had ad- 
ministered since its foundation, to the 
imperial house of Saint Denis, and 
caused her to pass securely, flourishing 
and entire, through the last five years 
of our history — years, fertile in troubles, 
full of catastrophes and ruins. 


CHAPTER IV. 

D URING this lengthy digression, 
which is not entirely useless, but 
which we ask the reader to pardon, we 
have left Jeanne and her noble pro- 
tectress standing before the iron gate of 
Saint Denis. Having stated the object 
of her visit, the marquise was shown 
into the presence of a young nun, who 
asked her name and then went to her 
superior for orders. She soon returned 
and showed the strangers into a reception 
room, furnished with austere carefulness, 
where a lady of mature years awaited 
them. Her simple dignified manners 
contrasted singularly with those of the 
marquise ; whilst her benign and ma- 
ternal aspect reassured our little friend. 
Jeanne had passed through the vast 
streets, examining everything with as- 
tonishment and fear. She felt taken 
by the sincere goodness children recog- 
nise so quickly, and in which they a*re 
so seldom deceived. 

The marquise and the superintendent, 
(for it was that high dignitary of Saint 
Denis who was before the strangers,) at 
once understood each other, and found 
they could settle things as women of the 
world — as equals. Whilst the child 


80 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


looked at the great red ribbon, placed in 
the form of a cross on the black robe of 
the superintendent, Mme. de Boutaric 
handed her the papers and explained the 
position and misfortunes of Jeanne’s 
family. 

“ We have several pupils in the same 
position,” replied the superintendent. 

“ The most noble families are often 
the poorest. In surrounding these young 
girls with our devoted care, we pay to 
them the debt the country has contracted 
with their fathers. Your little Jeanne 
will find here, madame, both mother and 
sisters.” Whilst speaking, the superin- 
tendent fixed on the child’s countenance 
her remarkably clear eye, as if she wished 
to penetrate her, to understand her and 
to know beforehand her aptitude, her in- 
clinations, and her tastes. She then 
gave the marquise a look that showed 
she was pleased with the child, and said, 
“ Now, madame la marquise, this sweet 
little girl belongs to us. You can leave 
her in our care.” 

Jeanne, at these words, turned her 
great brown eyes, full of barely-re- 
strained tears, towards the marquise. 
“ Alas ! ” thought she, “ my whole life 
is passed saying farewell to some one.” 
Three days ago she feared the marquise, 
her brusque words, her frigid manner. 
But this apparently grand lady, so stern 
and so haughty, had been good to her — 
had shown her sympathy and interest. 
Poor Jeanne, who wished only to love, 
became quickly attached to her ; and 
now, when quitting her, felt a deep, 
vivid sorrow. Jeanne did not deceive 
herself, it was a new and final separation 
with all that recalled the past. 

The superintendent understood these 
natural feelings — she pitied this young 
sincere sorrow. “ To-morrow is Sunday,” 
said she ; “ and as we celebrate one of 
our chief religious solemnities, the feast 
of the Holy Sacrament, we have no 
work done here. Would it please you, 
madame, if I allow Mademoiselle Der- 
ville to pass another day with you ?” 

Jeanne looked such a strong yes, 
that the marquise dared not say no. 

“ If you would like to partake of our 
feast, mademoiselle can see her future 
companions, and you will know how we 
teach our young people to honor God.” 
It was hard to refuse. The marquise 
accepted, saying to herself, it was only I 


| one day longer at Saint Denis, and she 
could not, therefore, refuse so slight a 
favor to the poor orphan. 

Saint Denis is an important sub- 
prefecture, but does not offer in itself a 
very varied or agreeable programme of 
amusements for a young girl, and 
Madame de Boutaric had not imagina- 
tion enough to suggest any. 

An obliging cicerone, who waited on 
them, offered to show the abbey and 
subterraneous chapel ; when they would 
see the tombs of the kings. 

“ That will help us to pass away one or 
two hours,” thought the marquise, look- 
ing at Jeanne, “ without which I do not 
see how we will kill this day.” 

However interesting, grand, and ma- 
jestic the dark tombs of the Merovin- 
gians, the Carlovingians, and the Cape- 
tians may be, they offer no particular 
recreation for a little girl nine years old. 
Let us add, that Jeanne did not even 
know the names of the great men, more 
or less great, of whom they spoke to 
her, and the tombs of these people, so 
foreign to all her thoughts, were subjects 
of profound indifference. 

She walked behind, following, with 
unequal steps and wandering eye, whilst 
Madame de Boutaric, whose national 
fibre the history of France always in- 
flamed, stopped before the tombs of her 
chosen heroes , and from the depths of 
her pious soul commended them to God, 
by a rapid but fervent invocation — pass- 
ing proudly before the crowns of the 
deceased who had not the honor to 
excite her sympathy. 

The three races, joining together, 
endeavored to make Jeanne’s morning 
pass more quickly. But this journey 
among the dead grieved the child. See- 
ing these tombs, she thought of the one 
that was opened in the rustic cemetery 
of the little Norman village. She felt 
a sensation of freedom on reaching the 
open air, and as she left the church, she 
looked with less fear on the house, which 
in two days would enclose, for so long a 
time, her youth and liberty. 

There, at least, thought she, I will 
find some living persons. 

The marquise engaged two rooms at 
the hotel in the neighborhood, and fa- 
tigued by her walks, worn out by the 
heat, so much greater in the flat of 
Saint Denis than on the shore of La 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


31 


Manche, where the sea-breeze tempers 
the intense heat of summer. Entirely 
disconcerted by this unaccustomed life, 
she shut herself up for the remainder of 
the day. 

She had taken the precaution to bring 
in her bag her woollen knitting and 
her long needles, which seldom left her. 
She set at once to work without again 
raising her eyes, as if her dinner de- 
pended absolutely on the number of 
stitches she made. She had given 
Jeanne so much advice and so many 
exhortations that she had not the con- 
science to add any more. Besides, she 
was contented, for this dear marquise 
was not foolish, to exchange with Jeanne, 
now and then, some monosyllables J 

The colonel’s daughter found an illus- 
trated book on the table — dear to those 
from whom literature keeps, yet, its 
secrets, and which can be run over with 
the thumb. She then stationed herself 
near the window. But her looks wan- 
dered from the pictures, and tried to 
pierce the dark high walls which would 
so soon shelter her young life. 

What thoughts agitated this young 
mind, who can tell ? But by the grave 
sad expression of her face it was easy 
to guess that they were very serious 
ones. 

Jeanne conjured not yet, she could 
not conjure, the enigma of her destiny. 
But her precocious intelligence made 
her already feel that it would be a formi- 
dable enigma for her. 

The afternoon, in such a tete-h-t§te, 
was not lively, and the time seemed to 
pass very slowly. 

Under the pretext that she must rise 
early the next morning, Madame de 
Boutaric, always systematic, sent her 
early to bed. Jeanne shut her great 
eyes, and dreamed — a little of Phara- 
mond, of Clovis, and of Chilperic, and 
a great deal of madame the superin- 
tendent. 

Next morning, at the time appointed, 
the marquise presented herself at the 
gate. Neither she nor Jeanne would 
have recognised the house. Last even- 
ing it had seemed austere and sad, now 
it appeared smiling and adorned as the 
asylum of happiness. Flowers every- 
where. Joy on every face. In a dis- 
tant balcony they saw a garland of 
3 


curious heads, unable to approach, but 
regarding them from afar. 

A young overseer waited on the mar- 
quise, and conducted them with rapid 
steps to the entrance of the vast park 
where the scholars walked and played. 

Opposite the door, arranged with the 
best regard to the perspective, they saw 
a magnificent altar, of simple archi- 
tecture, as the.se monuments of a day 
ought always to be, but ornamented 
with exquisite taste and natural ele- 
gance. Such taste and elegance as 
women can always employ, to embellish 
the objects of their worship, divine or 
human. What artist could ever equal 
them in adorning a bed-chamber or a 
chapel ? 

White draperies were gracefully ar- 
ranged around four pillars supporting a 
canopy shading the improvised altar, on 
which the Host was to be placed. Twelve 
ribbons of the different shades of the 
twelve divisions — among which are dis- 
tributed the scholars of Saint Denis — 
float in the wind, and with their varie- 
gated colors, show brightly and gayly 
on the whiteness of all around. Gar- 
lands of flowers hang from the canopy, 
twine around the pillars, and design on 
the front of the altar, in the midst of a 
thousand sacred emblems, the mono- 
grams of Jesus and Mary. 

The long walk through which the pro- 
cession was to pass was covered with 
leaves and branches. Here and there 
a bow of ribbon fastened to a tree indi- 
cated the course that the King of Heaven 
and of Earth was to take in the midst 
of his children. The park of Saint Denis, 
usually beautifully majestic, now resem- 
bled fairy land. 

Jeanne, at the age of quick emotions, 
was enraptured. She was under a charm 
which beamed from her countenance 
and gave her a singular brightness. 

“ Oh, indeed !” thought the Marquise, 
“ she is very beautiful.” 

No one here had thought of asking 
whether Jeanne was beautiful? They 
only noticed she had large brown eyes, 
soft and bright, a frank manner which 
pleased every one, and an expression of 
lively, deep feeling. There were, indeed, 
those who said her mouth was too large \ 
but they were forced to add that her 
lips were red and her teeth white, and 


32 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


that her smile of penetrating goodness 
brightened all, or, to express ourselves 
more clearly, illuminated her nervous 
paleness as a ray of sun illuminates a 
landscape, and causes it to shine with 
glory. 

She was entering that age so well 
named the “ ungainly age” of girlhood; 
where thinness gives too much sharpness 
to the cheek bones; but the pure out- 
lines and the fine contour of her delicate 
form were not altered, and in what she 
was, one could easily see what she would 
be in later years. 

The good marquise, whose aesthetic 
opinions had formed themselves more 
than once into this indulgent maxim, 
“Any one is beautiful who has all his 
members,” could not see so far. Jeanne, 
in her eyes, was just like all other* chil- 
dren — nothing more. And it therefore 
must have been a singularly bright look 
to snatch from the good lady the sudden 
-exclamation we have quoted above. 

Soon the aerial tones of two silver 
-clocks announced that the procession 
-quitted the chapel. Five minutes later 
they saw appear, in a double line, the 
-cortege of scholars and of ladies advanc- 
ing slowly in an imposing manner. Head- 
ing the brilliant theorie , a banner, with 
bright colors, displayed the image of the 
Virgin raised above all. This banner 
was borne by a young girl surrounded 
by four companions, who held the tassels, 
suspended by long watered ribbons. 
Long white veils covered these young 
girls from head to foot. A crown of 
roses on their foreheads under the veils, 
which were transparent enough to allow 
their beautiful hair to be distinctly seen. 
The cross came next. It was borne by 
a sacristan ; for it was large, “strong, and 
heavy. Two young girls walked on either 
-side, crowned with sweet scented honey- 
suckles, and carrying candles almost as 
tall as themselves. 

A short distance from this group 
•came a swarm of children, chosen from 
the youngest and prettiest in the house. 
This innocent battalion kept the order 
of march as strictly as their older com- 
panions. They were crowned with corn 
flowers, and carried baskets filled with 
roses, suspended from their necks, rest- 
ing on their chests. From time to time, 
at a signal from the mistress of ceremo- 
nies, all turned, and filling their hands 


from their baskets, strewed their sweet 
branches under the steps of Him who 
causes the corn and flowers to grow. As 
this rain of roses fell on the earth a cloud 
of incense arose mounting towards 
Heaven. 

Four scholars, with red girdles bounded 
with white, and crowned with field 
flowers, swung their burning censers 
with skilful grace — making one dream 
of the cherubim, seen on high by the 
entranced prophets, whose whole eternity 
passes in burning sweet odors before the 
throne of the Almighty. Five other 
young girls represent the Virgins of the 
Gospel — the Wise Virgins — (often heard 
about !) They were chosen, after great 
deliberation, from the most beautiful in 
the school, and were crowned with white 
roses and jasamine. They walked di- 
rectly before the canopy, which was car- 
ried by eight scholars with white girdles, 
escorted by eight others holding the 
strings. On the right and left, in a 
double file, marched the singers, veiled 
like their companions, but without 
crowns ; and whose young fresh voices 
sung the poetic and touching notes of 
the church’s hymns. 

Words cannot portray the impression 
of such a sight. Nothing is so beautiful 
as pure, believing, religious youth ! All 
these pretty faces with their attractive 
freshness, whose feelings beam forth in 
such joyous rays ! All these white veils 
draped with exquisite art ; these crowns 
of flowers of ingeniously varied colors ; 
this floating banner, and those roses 
thrown around ; this mystic vapor of 
incense, whose spiral column mounts 
slowly into the air ; the harmonious 
chants; the long thread of young scholars 
unrolling in the beautiful walks of the 
park, with their robes of immaculate 
whiteness, showing so distinctly on the 
rich green of the trees and grass ; the 
splendors of a summer sky — (so deep and 
so blue one might call it an ocean of 
blue) ; the radiant sun adding a fresher 
brightness to the feast, all combined 
to make this day stand unsurpassed in 
its grandeur and beauty. Its remem- 
brance never faded from Jeanne Der- 
ville’s soul. The procession advancing 
with that solemn slowness which en- 
hances the majesty of all religious 
splendors, reached at last the foot of the 
altar. Whilst the priest ascended the 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


33 


altar, raising in his hands the mon- 
strance of gold containing the host, all 
the young performers in this sacred 
drama, placed themselves around, form- 
ing the most beautiful groups. The 
Holy Virgins, the Thuriferaries, the 
Canephores, with the baskets of roses, 
the candlestick bearers, and those who 
carried nothing, were all placed in the 
best position to add to the whole effect 
this charming living picture. 

There was a moment of deep silence. 
Then, in the midst of the general gather- 
ing, whilst fell the rain of perfumed 
roses, whilst forth breathed the incense, 
and whilst two doves (until then with 
invisible threads kept captive) took their 
flight towards heaven, the priest blessed 
the whole institution, and invoked for 
it the protection from on high ! Then 
the cortege re-formed its ranks, and re- 
turned in the same order as it came. 

Mme. de Boutaric followed at a dis- 
tance, holding Jeanne's hand. The col- 
onel’s daughter moved charmed, imag- 
ining herself already one of the scholars, 
and thinking that next year she would . 
play her part in the ceremony, lost the 
instinctive fear she was first oppressed 
by, and already longed for the morrow. 

That evening the marquise embraced 
Jeanne as tenderly as she could, and 
gave her in charge of a sister, who led 
her away to sleep in a grand dormitory, 
where there were already many young 
girls whom she remembered seeing in 
the park and chapel. These looked 
curiously and maliciously at the new- 
comer. Jeanne did not, in truth, pay 
them much attention, for she had never 
before undressed herself, and was much 
engrossed by the troublesome buttons 
and pins which are so absolutely essen- 
tial to all female costumes. 

The sister, knowing all here had to 
serve the same apprenticeship, left her 
to search and find as she might. Jeanne 
did search and find. Our little friend, 
unaccustomed to the rules of the house, 
was astonished to see so many young 
girls in one room without speaking. 
But she soon saw that if their lips were 
mute, their hands were not inactive; 
their fingers flew with great rapidity 
from their forehead to their eyes, their 
mouth, their ears, and, by never-ending 
process, they made the silent letters of 
a mysterious alphabet. Jeanne soon saw 


she was the subject of these telegraphic 
signs, and felt a sensation of unknown 
anger. She also resolved, as soon as she 
met with a willing teacher, to commence 
her education by the study of this indis- 
pensable language. But the eyes of the 
sister left Jeanne, for their accustomed 
surveillance, and this aerial conversa- 
tion was interrupted. The hands re- 
turned to their duty, and became as 
mute as the tongues themselves. The 
sensation caused by the arrival of the 
‘ £ new one/' as they called Jeanne I)er- 
ville at present, for want of more defi- 
nite information, quieted, and, as it had 
been a very fatiguing day, sleep soon 
conquered all those little white beds. 
Jeanne followed suit a little after the 
others, on account of her troubled feel- 
ings; but she nevertheless ended by 
sleeping soundly. 


CHAPTER V. 

T HE next day a clock, placed so near 
the dormitory that she thought it 
struck at the head of her bed, awoke 
J eanne with a start. At the first stroke 
all the scholars jumped from their beds 
in the same silence which had so much 
surprised Jeanne the previous evening. 
They dressed with an ease and rapidity 
which Jeanne felt she could never hope 
to equal. She saw she ought to do as 
the rest, and in a moment she was on 
her feet. But she was greatly surprised 
not to find her clothes on the chair 
where she had placed them the previous 
evening. They were gone. At this mo- 
ment the sister drew near and said, in a 
low tone, “ You can remain a little longer 
in bed ; they are finishing your clothes, 
and will bring them as soon as the young 
ladies have risen.” 

Ten minutes later all the nests were 
empty, all the birds flown. The sister 
then returned with a seamstress, who 
brought the entire costume for the novice. 

The uniform of Saint Denis is not 
exactly coquettish ! and there is no- 
thing in it to encourage the taste for 
dress, which is so natural, they say, to 
the most beautiful half of the human 
race. If Jeanne expected to find some 
of the things she admired yesterday, she 
must have been bitterly disappointed. 
No more long white veils, waving the 


34 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


whole length of the graceful figures ! 
no more crowns of flowers scenting the 
curly hair ! but a robe of black stuff, cut 
in such a way that its stern simplicity 
could not be altered by the personal 
elegance of the one who wore it. For 
head-dress, a plain white hat, trimmed 
with an almost imperceptible piece of 
black velvet. Frightful hat, which had 
the gift of making the most beautiful 
hideous ; and that one is condemned, 
yet more awful thought ! to wear always, 
in the chapel, during play, and at the 
table ! Horrible ! To eat in a hat ! For 
shoes — shoes made out of coarse hide- 
skin ! showing a vulgar, common, blue 
stocking. 

Nothing, in fact, that belongs to 
luxury or elegance; necessaries, strict 
necessaries, and nothing, absolutely no- 
thing more ! I am mistaken — there is 
a little turned-down collar, the width of 
two fingers, and a belt, whose bright 
colors shone forth on the dark robe; 
but this girdle is not an ornament ; it 
is a sign, whose skilfully-combined shades 
show at a glance to which division the 
scholar belongs. One can see that the 
details of this costume are dark enough 
to suit the austereness of all around. 

Jeanne dressed herself more rapidly 
and less awkwardly than one could ex- 
pect in a little girl who had never before 
helped herself. All went well. There 
were no serious difficulties till she was 
going to dress her hair. The free child 
of Nature had always allowed her 
beautiful brown hair to fall around her 
head and neck in soft, waving ringlets. 
“ The rules of the house will not allow 
these curls,” said the sister. “ You must 
smooth your hair, mademoiselle. All 
your companions wear smooth hair.” 

“ But that is impossible, mademoi- 
selle ; mine will curl, in spite of my- 
self!” 

“ Oh ! is that all ? We can soon re- 
medy that !” 

The strict observer of discipline tried 
her best to smooth Jeanne’s hair, which 
continually escaped from her hands, re- 
bellious and flowing, rising in little 
waves under her very fingers. She at 
last succeeded in gathering- and fasten- 
ing them smooth on the child’s head. 
Jeanne resisted no more, except to put 
her hand on her forehead or ears, with 
the involuntary gesture one makes when 


I they are hurt. “ It is better already,” 
said the sister, looking at her master- 
piece with a satisfied air. <c Now for the 
hat !” 

“ Why ? Bo we go out so soon ?” * 

“ No, my child ; but here we wear 
the hat all the time. It is the rule” 

Jeanne lowered her head without a 
word. Jeanne’s hair was beautiful ; the 
hat was ugly. The child was annoyed, 
but she did not wish to show it, and 
quietly allowed herself to be muffled up 
in the uniform hat. 

“ All is well arranged,” said the sis- 
ter; “ now we can go down.” She 
stepped back to survey the whole effect 
of the toilet, and then approached her 
quickly — 

u What have you in your ears ?” 

11 A pair of ear-rings, always worn by 
my mother, and given me by my father, 
in remembrance of her.” 

“ I understand. You must value them 
very highly. They will certainly be re- 
turned to you some day. But here you 
cannot wear jewelry. It is against the 
rules.” And Madame Arg&les — for this 
was the sister’s name — unfastened the 
first ear-ring with a sleight-of-hand worthy 
of a goldsmith. 

“ Alas !” said Jeanne, with a suffocat- 
ing heart, “ I have always worn them.” 

“You were never at St. Denis before, 
my child.” 

Jeanne saw she must submit with a 
good grace ; so she unfastened the other 
ear-ring, and handed it to Mme. Ar- 
gues. 

“It is perfect !” said she ; “ I see you 
are a good little woman, and we will 
love each other well — don’t you think 
so?” % 

“ Yes, madame.” 

The sister took the two very simple 
ear-rings — only a little black enamel on 
a gold ground — and folded them in a 
paper, on which she wrote the name of 
Jeanne Derville, saying, “They will be 
returned to you when you leave here.” 

“ In ten years !” thought Jeanne, who 
could not suppress a sigh. 

Now the toilet was really completed. 
The “ new one” glanced at a little glass, 
big as a hand, that hung at the head of 
the bed ; she saw that she was ugly, and 
fearful to behold — as if one could be 
ugly with this budding youth, with this 
freshness and brightness of spring-time, 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


35 


which nature places on the face of a 
young girl in her first season. To speak 
the truth, the costume does not in the 
least enhance the natural graces of the 
individual. Instead of brightening, it 
seems to hide them. If any scholar left 
Saint Denis with ideas of coquetry and 
luxury, one could say it was a fatal gift 
brought from without — the evil fruit — 
too well grafted by a former teaching, 
which the institution endeavors not to 
ripen. It was a useless care ; there are 
some long-lived plants which spread of 
themselves, grow and flourish without 
culture. There are also some charming 
creatures, daughters of Eve by the apple 
— even without the serpent — who would 
be coquettes in the midst of a desert. 

The toilet completed, Mme. Argeles, 
crossing the long halls and endless cor- 
ridors, led Jeanne into the study of the 
inspector of lessons, whose duty it was 
to examine (as they say in university 
parlance), and decide to which division 
she could belong. She introduced 
Jeanne, and left her alone with this 
stranger. Like all timid children, 
Jeanne had a natural fear of strange 
faces ; and yet, such a need of loving 
some one, that she felt to the nun as 
she had felt to Mme. de Boutaric. She 
thought she had commenced to love her, 
and regretted her departure. The strange 
inspector frightened her. 

Mme. d’Anglade — that was her name 
— was writing, and did not even raise 
her head. When Mme. Argeles intro- 
duced Jeanne, she merely made a sign 
of dismissal, and continued her work, 
without taking any more notice of the 
child. Jeanne, seated on the edge of 
her chair, looked curiously around. 
There were many books in this study, 
and high book-cases filled with boxes ; 
there was also an orrery on the end of 
the table, showing the harmonious move- 
ments of the great bodies which God has 
placed in space. 

Jeanne could not have told exactly 
what was there ; she looked without see- 
ing, or she saw without understanding. 

The large maps in relief on the walls, 
with their snow-clad mountains, their 
green forests, their blue rivers, astonished 
her ; but she looked in vain among this 
austere furniture for the familiar and 
charming things which give the grace 


of a home, and with which her father 
had surrounded her in the delicious re- 
treat of the Rosery. 

On finishing this examination, she 
looked at the lady, who was writing all 
the time very rapidly, and with a scratch- 
ing pen. Suddenly the lady pushed 
away her paper, drew her black leather 
chair from the table, leaned her elbows 
on the arms and looked at the child. 

“Is it you who are called Jeanne 
Derville ?” 

. “ Yes, madame.” 

“ How old are you ?” 

“ Nine and a half years old.” 

“ Nine years and a half! You are 
very large ! If you are as learned as you 
are tall, you will at once enter into the 
class of violet uniforms, which they do 
not generally enter before ten. I will 
examine you !” 

J eanne, who had, alas ! good reason for 
being modest, was seized with a nervous 
tremor and became very pale. She 
coughed a little, to reassure herself. We 
must confess that Mme. d’Anglade’s ap- 
pearance was not calculated to set a 
young scholar at her ease. In all re- 
spects a most admirable person, and 
whose strict impartiality was appreciated 
by every one, she was a little thin 
woman, with such yellow skin that a 
malicious scholar had nicknamed her 
u Madame la Jaundice.” The word was 
so applicable that it immortalized the 
young girl, and was settled firmly on 
madame. She had such a queer little 
body that it is hardly worth describing. 
Her face was thin, long and withered, 
with a pinched nose, a projecting fore- 
head ; her head covered with thick gray 
hair; small eyes, of an uncertain hue, 
which seemed to pierce the soul. 

On examining Jeanne, the inspector 
soon saw that her education had, unhap- 
pily, been seriously neglected. 

“ You do not know enough to join the 
violet uniform — let us see how it will be 
with the violet and white !” 

She asked her some still easier ques- 
tions; but the child could give only 
very imperfect replies. 

“ What ! you cannot even join the 
violet-bordered class !” said the inspector, 
overpowered by the monstrosity of this 
unexpected result. “ My dear child, what 
are you capable of? What do you know ?” 


36 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ 1 can gardeu a little, and I know 
how to fish for shrimps,” replied Jeanne, 
with such artlessness that the heart of the 
superintendent might have been touched. 
The inspectress’s heart was moved ; she 
answered, with a slight smile, “ The 
shrimps come to Saint Denis already 
caught — when they do come — and as to 
your gardening, it is an agreeable em- 
ployment in the country, but not of 
much use here, where we do not permit 
any child to have flowers, as it might 
pain those who could not get them ! You 
at least know how to read ?” 

“Oh, yes! madame,” said Jeanne, 
with a blush. 

“And to write ?” 

Here the reply was not very distinct, 
and Mme. d’Anglade was forced to re- 
peat the question. 

“ I write a little — pretty well.” 

“ Oh ! if you write only a little, it is 
not enough for a big girl nearly ten years 
old ; I will, however, place you in the 
green uniform. Come near the table.” 
Jeanne did so, and the inspectress handed 
her pen and paper. 

“The paper is not ruled, madame,” 
said the child, with unaffected fright. 

“ Write, nevertheless, what I dictate.” 

Jeanne wrote; but her letters were so 
indistinct and badly formed, and her 
spelling of such, a fantastic nature, that 
it was worthy the ladies of the past cen- 
tury, who talked so well that it was not 
necessary for them to know how to write. 

The inspectress took the paper, and, 
on reading the first line, threw back her 
head and projected her under-lip in a 
significant manner. “ Well, my dear 
little one, it must certainly be the green- 
bordered division; and*even in this class, 
though it is the lowest in the school, you 
cannot take the first place. Your edu- 
cation has been more neglected than I 
can tell you, and you must have much 
courage and willingness to regain the lost 
time. Do you truly intend to work ?” 

“ Oh, yes, madame; I feel I must.” 

The inspectress struck a bell, and Ma- 
dame Arg&les reappeared. 

“ Bordered-green !” said the inspec- 
' tress, who had recommenced her work. 

Madame Argefles shrugged her shoul- 
ders, as if she could hardly give vent to 
her surprise. She, however, brought 
the designated girdle, and fastened it 
around Jeanne’s waist. 


“ My child,” said the superintendent, 
“ you are two years backward for your 
age. We have twelve divisions, and I 
am obliged to place you for a time at 
least in the lowest of all, with children 
only eight years old. But this must not 
discourage you. I see you are bright, 
and I hope you are willing and coura- 
geous. It is necessary that you should 
pass through the first classes of the course, 
in order soon to join the young girls of 
your own age. The time this takes will 
depend upon yourself. It is usual for 
the pupils to remain six months in each 
division ; but I will consider your pecu- 
liar situation, and each time you are ca- 
pable of advancement, I will give the 
necessary authorization. Now, my child, 
you may go.” 

Madame ArgMes led Jeanne into the 
school-room of the twelfth division, where 
they all wore the green girdle bound with 
white. 

As the inspectress had told our hero- 
ine, this division was composed of the 
youngest children in the school. Here, 
Jeanne, who was much older, and very 
large for her age, seemed entirely out of 
place. 

She was astnuned of this contrast, that 
must strike every one; and, with this 
shame, another feeling soon mingled. 
Friendship, which requires equality in 
friends, requires also equality of age. 
Two years’ difference, in some periods of 
life, creates a gulf it is difficult to pass. 
Neither the ideas, tastes, nor abilities, 
are the same ; there is no point of con- 
tact ; nothing in common in their whole 
existence. 


CHAPTER YI. . 

J EANNE, in the midst of her new 
companions, was almost as much alone 
as at the Rosery. What do I say ? At 
the Rosery she was always with the best 
and most tender of fathers, and she en- 
joyed with him the sweet intercourse 
which nothing could now replace. Hav- 
ing nothing better to do, she tried to 
console herself by work. She worked 
much and worked well, with a success 
that astonished her mistress. She burnt 
the routine, and doubled the studies. 

By the time she was twelve, she had 
made up her lost time, and entered the 
red-belted class, with the girls of her 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


37 


own age. From this time she com- 
menced a new life. 

She had passed the line below which 
work is a drudgery and tasks a vexation. 
To learn, was now a pleasure for her. 
Her young intellect bounded towards the 
new and unknown horizon which opened 
before her. She devoured books and 
drank the words that fell from the lips 
of her teachers. Her mind, which had 
not been forced by early work, seized 
everything with a wonderful facility; 
aud her memory, sure and faithful, re- 
tained all that was confided to it. She 
succeeded in everything. It was very 
seldom that she was without a medal of 
honor on her neck. At the solemn dis- 
tributions at the end of the year, she ob- 
tained the most beautiful crowns. One 
could already foresee that the day would 
come when the House of Saint Denis 
would cite her as an example of what 
they could accomplish, and show her as 
a specimen of the education they were 
capable of giving. 

She was not contented with acquiring 
only what is called education. Her fairy 
fingers excelled in all the fancy works 
which are the specialty of women. Nei- 
ther did she neglect the accomplish- 
ments which they teach at the Saint 
Denis with as much zeal and care as in 
the first schools in the world. She 
sketched a Greek nose from a bust with 
a sure and rapid pencil, and painted in 
water colors as the young English girls 
for whom they were first made. But it 
was easy to see, from the first, that music 
would be her triumph. Others might 
show themselves more skilful, executing 
complicated pieces; there were others 
with more liveliness and flexibility of 
voice ; but no person understood better 
than she that music is the language of 
emotion, and that it must speak to the 
heart before all. Indeed, whether she 
played or sang, she saw in the notes only 
melodious accents by which she could 
express the treasures of a deep and true 
feeling. Every one in the House was 
satisfied with her except herself. She 
never truly believed she had attained 
the end. She worked with an ardor 
which became dangerous. They thought 
it necessary to moderate her zeal. Her 
health did not suffer, however. She was 
in every respect a brave nature. Her 
beauty, slow in developing, did not seem 


of that kind which rules over and fasci- 
nates the multitude ; but she could not 
be looked upon with indifference by any 
man susceptible to the charms of grace 
and of distinction. An expression, by 
turns lively and pensive, replaced with 
her that classical beauty, more and more 
rare in real life, which the chisel of the 
sculptors, and the brush of the painters, 
strive to give to the forms that they 
make to start from the marble or live 
upon canvas — and how exquisite the de- 
tails of this her fine noble physiognomy! 

Her color, as pale as that of a white 
rose, but flushing under the least emo- 
tion with the rich blood of youth, was 
of an ideal transparency and freshness. 
Her eyes, of an orange-brown, some- 
times appearing black, and sometimes 
seeming shot with a ray of gold, gave 
to her face a strange brightness, height- 
ened by the purity of a forehead that 
nature had modelled with love and 
stamped with intelligence. Add to all, 
the gift, as precious as it is rare, of 
naturally exciting the sympathy of all 
the world and making one’s self loved, 
and you will readily understand that 
Jeanne was as great a favorite with her 
mistresses as with her school-mates. 

She had insensibly reached the age 
when the soul of the young girl needs 
to overflow in tenderness, and prelude 
love by friendship. Friendship, that 
feeling so sweet and pure in the spring- 
time of life, when nothing alters or cor- 
rupts her noble disinterestedness, Jeanne 
experienced in its highest form of exal- 
tation. 

From the midst of all the affections 
she had won, she chose (from a hundred 
others) a friend of her heart ; for whom 
she was all, even as this friend was all 
to her. The two were only one — they 
were so inseparable. One saw them al- 
ways together ; like the beautiful couples 
of the tropical birds, which fly as bro- 
thers, always in the same blue cloud, 
rest on t*he same branches, pick the same 
fruit, and sleep ou the same twig. They 
partook of the same plays and the same 
studies. 

This joy of friendship was truly the 
greatest happiness the poor orphan had 
yet felt. She was too young, when her 
mother died, to feel the full value of her 
tenderness. Later, the sadness of her 
father, though it did not alter his perfect 


38 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


goodness, had clouded the charm of 
Jeanne’s intercourse with him. And be- 
sides, who, alas ! does not know that' 
children are such dear ungrateful beings ? 
Whilst their affection fills all our de- 
sires, it is very rare that ours will suf- 
fice for them. It always feels the need 
of escaping to some other. 

True affection, reciprocated affection, 
which recognises itself, and relishes its 
own happiness, was revealed to Jeanne, 
only at the moment when she met her 
friend, the friend of her choice, Victo- 
rine de Blanchelande. They were of 
the same age, both fifteen; they entered 
life hand in hand. Yictorine de Blanche- 
lande, alongside of her friend Jeanne 
Derville, showed this union of opposites, 
from which, we are assured, grows the 
perfect harmony of the whole group. 
Blonde, a little darling, lovely and gay, 
Yictorine sparkled like the fire, apd 
spread around her the sparks of an ori- 
ginal spirit. She threw out, abundantly, 
everywhere, and at all risks, the exces- 
sive fullness of an exuberant nature ; 
whilst Jeanne, more calm, more serious, 
sometimes more pensive, had something 
timid and reserved in her ways. But 
these differences between them made a 
complete whole, and made them love 
each other more. This affection had 
the most happy influence on Jeanne 
Derville. Friendship supplied all her 
needs, and made her sometimes forget 
-she was without family. Yictorine, on 
her side, showed all the kind attentions 
and delicacy of true feelings. She al- 
lowed no occasion of proving her affec- 
tion to escape. Thursday was, for 
Jeanne, the saddest day of the week, 
for the scholars were then called into 
the parlor during the recreation hours 
to receive the visits of their relatives. 
At this time, plays were abandoned, and 
the walks almost deserted. 

Jeanne never felt her isolation more; 
never did her loneliness seem more 
bitter : never did she feel, more than 
then, the value of Mile. deBlanchelande’s 
friendship. Jeanne was somewhat too 
exclusive, as passionate natures will be 
everywhere ; her engrossing affection for 
Yictorine had rendered her, little by 
little, insensible of the affection she 
might have won from her other compan- 
ions. She asked nothing from them, 
and charmed all who had intercourse 


with her. Without caring for what she 
could receive from them, her reciprocity 
was only a graceful indifference. In 
this respect, she was already a woman 
of the world. 

Whilst her friend was in the parlor, 
she remained waiting for her, generally 
alone. 

Once or twice, in rejoining her, Yic- 
torine saw the tears in her big brown 
eyes. She did not have to ask the 
cause; she understood it. Afterwards, 
under one pretext or another, she always 
found means to end, before all the other 
pupils, her visits to the parlor. 

Yes, indeed, and notwithstanding the 
visitor was her mother. But the young 
girl felt she would give so much plea- 
sure to the poor orphan by approaching 
her a few moments before she was ex- 
pected. 

“ Why do you always return first from 
the parlor ?” asked Jeanne, one Thurs- 
day, when she had been alone a shorter 
time than usual. 

“ Ah !” replied the other, “ if thou 
canst not guess, thou art only stupid or 
ungrateful. That will give my mother 
pain enough.” 

Jeanne threw her arms round her 
neck, saying, u Thanks 1 I dared not 
think thus. Thou art too good. But 
thou must do so no more. I will try and 
be reasonable.” 

“Thou canst not! Since thou lovest 
me.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

LLE. DE BLANCHELANDE was 
not a poor orphan, like her friend. 
She belonged, on the contrary, to a rich 
and influential family. Her mother, 
Mine, la Baronne de Blanchelande, who 
sent for her each week to come to the par- 
lor, was a woman of the world, of fashiona- 
ble life, and of large connections. After 
having embraced her daughter, listened 
to her chatting for a little while, ascer- 
tained she was well, and had all she re- 
quired, Madame de Blanchelande asked 
nothing better than to take her flight 
and return to the streets of Paris. She 
was at last, however, astonished to see 
the little ruses that the daughter em- 
ployed to shorten, more and more, the 
length of the interview. 

“ Remain a little longer,” said she, at 



THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


39 


last, on a certain Thursday, when Yic- 
torine seemed in greater haste than usual. 
“ I will be happy to do so, mamma.” 
The young girl made a little face, which 
passed for pleasure, and reseated herself. 
Then in a few moments she arose again, 
saying, “ Good-morning, mamma ; I am 
going now !” 

“ Oh, go then, my beauty, since the 
parlor burns thy feet ! Only I would like 
to know what thus draws thee from me ?” 

“ Mamma, I go to see Jeanne.” 

“ Who is this Jeanne, if you please ? 
And what attraction has she which pre- 
vents your remaining in the parlor until 
the hour of closing, as do all your little 
comrades ?” 

“ Oh ! it is true, mamma, you do not 
know Jeanne! Ah, well! Jeanne is 
Mile. Derville !” 

“ I do not know Mile. Derville any 
more than Mile. Jeanne.” 

“ Jeanne, mamma, is my friend ! See, 
she loVes only me, and I love only her 
in the institution; and when I am in 
the parlor she mourns so much ; so much 
that it pains me ! You see, I must go ! 
Good-bye, mamma !” 

“Go, my child, since thou lovest thy 
friend more than thy mother !” 

“ Oh, mamma, you must not say that ! 
I love you so much ! but you are not 
alone as this poor Jeanne, and I am very 
sure you are not as unhappy as she is 
when I am not there !” 

“ Then go comfort thy Jeanne.” 

“Yes, mamma; I thank you, mam- 
ma !” 

Mme. de Blanchelande kissed the eyes 
of Yictorine, and permitted her to go. 
The little girl flew like a bird. 

But the baroness, instead of getting 
into her carriage and hastening to Paris, 
asked to see one of the ladies that she 
knew, and to whose care she had often 
recommended her little girl. 

“ It seems,” said she, commencing, 
“ that Yictorine has taken (I know not 
why) a great passion for one of her com- 
panions whose name, I believe, is Jeanne 
Derville. Will you tell me truly, dear 
madame, what this little one may be ? 
It is well, at least, that I should know 
my daughter’s friend.” 

“Jeanne Derville, madame, is the best 
and most charming of all we have here : 
a true pearl, pretty as love, sweet as an 
angel, sprightly as a goblin ; the greatest 


worker, who knows already as much as 
her teachers. She loves Victorine, and 
I am delighted with this for your daugh- 
ter’s sake. Friendship is a great thing 
in life — a still greater thing, perhaps, at 
the age of these children, who know no 
other sentiment. If it is Yictorine who 
has chosen her she has shown great dis- 
crimination ; if it is she who has chosen 
Yictorine, Yictorine has done well in 
allowing herself to be chosen. Mile, 
de Blanchelande has a good heart. I do 
not give her great credit for that — she 
gets it from you ; but I must add, she 
joins to that a mischievous little head, 
for which she is indebted to herself.” 

“ And her father, dear madame, I pray 
that you will not forget her father !” 

“ That may be,” replied the other, 
smiling; “ I will not discuss the ques- 
tion of origin. But I do know that this 
little head threatens to spoil the most 
lovely points of your daughter’s charac- 
ter. She was obstinate, wilful and ca- 
-pricious; but since Jeanne Derville has 
been her friend, her impetuosity has 
been subdued, her passions calmed, as 
if by a miracle. She has worked much 
better ; you must have noticed the im- 
provement in her letters. She has be- 
come regular and submissive ; she gov- 
erns herself, in order to imitate her 
friend, and become more worthy of her. 
You see, madame, what Jeanne Derville 
has done. See, this is her influence over 
Yictorine. You can now judge of her.” 

“ I am truly enchanted with what you 
tell me, and I shall be delighted to know 
this wonder.” 

“Nothing is easier; but I forgot to 
tell you, all these beautiful qualities are 
tarnished by a very sad defect.” 

“ What is it, then ?” 

“ Unfortunately the one of all others 
that we are least disposed to pardon in a 
young girl.” 

“ Indeed ! And this is Yictorine’s 
friend ? You frighten me.” 

“Oh, do not tremble! This defect is 
not contagious ; and if, unhappily, your 
daughter’s friend is not likely soon to 
free herself from it, still, be perfectly 
certain that Yictorine will not catch it 
in her company.” 

“ If you imagine you are becoming 
more explicit, I declare I give it up, 
without trying to guess.” 

“ Well, then, know that Jeanne Der- 


40 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF, HONOR. 


ville is one of those creatures who seem 
created to taste the joys of life. It is 
impossible to see her without also saying 
that she has been made for all elegant 
distinctions, and all the refinements of 
luxury, and yet, when she leaves here, 
she will not have perhaps a stone on 
which to lay her head. The day when 
she will quit us laden with prizes, cov- 
ered with medals, furnished with all 
our diplomas, she will have for her whole 
fortune only the five hundred francs paid 
by the state, until their twenty-first year, 
to the daughters of the colonels raised 
at St. Denis. She is poor, poor, poor.” 

“ It is an unhappy destiny,” said the 
baroness, with emotion. “ I do not know 
little Derville, and still her situation 
touches me. I have never seen her, 
and I feel as if I loved her already. I 
will wait on her. Truly am I gratified 
that my foolish little Yictorine should 
have obtained such a friend. But will 
it not be possible to do something for so 
worthy and interesting an orphan ?” 

“ Nothing, at present, I thank you for 
her; now all would be useless. You 
know well our scholars have here no 
real wants that are not . satisfied. We 
treat all on the same footing, and with 
perfect equality ; and with the best will 
in the world, we could not do more for 
the daughter of a king than we do for 
this poor, destitute one. 

“ She has, without paying, the best 
masters in the world. She learns all that 
a young girl ought to know, and at the 
same time, we give here a solid and 
practical education which will fit her, 
later, for all the exigencies of life. On 
leaving us, she will know how to keep 
house with economy if she is poor, with 
elegance if she is rich. In a word, we 
have here done for her all that the most 
affectionate and considerate father would 
wish us to do for his child. She, on her 
side, has profited wonderfully by all the 
instruction given to her. She came 
here knowing nothing; she knows now 
all a young girl of her age can know. 
If I desired any one to appreciate the 
house of St. Denis, and show the results 
that could there be obtained, I would 
say, see Jeanne Derville, and judge for 
yourself!” 

“ Ah ! indeed, I ask only to see and 
judge myself. Can you not, next Thurs- 


day, send your phoenix to the parlor 
with Yictorine ?” 

“Nothing easier; we will lend her to 
you for an hour.” 

The next Thursday, therefore, Mme. 
de Blanchelande, who had not told her 
daughter, in order to enjoy her surprise 
and happiness, asked for the friends at 
the same time. 

To go to the parlor ! It was for 
Jeanne a real event. Since her en- 
trance into St. Denis she had been sent 
for only once. 

“ Me to the parlor ? It is a mistake !” 
said she, to Mile, de Blanchelande. 
“ Who, now, thinks of asking for me ? 
Besides, there is only one person who 
has the right, Mme. de Boutaric, whom 
I have so often told thee about ; but she 
has other things to think of just now. 
She is making hay. I had a letter from 
Avranches, yesterday, which told me 
this important news.” 

“ Come all the same, since they ask 
for you,” replied Yictorine ; “ if it is 
only to conduct me.” 

Arm-in-arm, the two inseparable ones 
went. 

“ Hold ! there is mamma,” said Yic- 
torine, pointing out to her friend a still 
young and elegantly dressed lady, whose 
only defect was in being rather too em- 
bonpoint. 

There were in the parlor a dozen rela- 
tives, and not one of them was alone — 
each one had at her side the scholar she 
had asked for. One saw, here and there, 
little groups full of life; young girls 
and grandparents chattering for dear 
life. Jeanne, much moved, a little 
abashed, remained at the entrance of the 
vast saloon, looking and waiting. 

“ I must go,” said she, sadly, prepar- 
ing to retire ; “ they are mistaken. I 
thought so ; who could dream of coming 
to see me, me ? Good-bye, Yictorine ; 
do not stay too long, if you can help it.” 

In the meantime, Mme. Blanchelande 
stood at the corner of the mantel-piece, 
looking at Mile. Derville with great at- 
tention. 

“ Pretty,” said she to herself ; “ good 
figure, as well as we can judge under 
those wrappings ; a frank, pleasing man- 
ner, with a touch of melancholy, which 
gives to her an attractive charm. Let it 
go On ; I am very well pleased with my 
daughter's friend.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


41 


Victorine ran to her mother and held 
up her face to be kissed, but soon turned 
her head towards the door. 

“Well,” said the baroness, kissing 
her, “ what art thou looking at ?” 

u Mamma, it is my little friend — it is 
Jeanne — Mile. Derville — whom I spoke 
to you about last time. She was very 
happy, just now, poor little girl ! She 
thought some one had come to see her, 
and you see that pleased her. Now she 
finds it was a mistake; and see, she is 
very sad.” 

“ Well, my child, go for her; we will 
all three talk together.” 

“ Oh ! mamma, how good thou art to- 
day ! Do you know nothing could give 
me more pleasure ?” She ran to her 
friend. 

“Come, my little Jeanne,”,. said she, 
taking her hand, “ since no one is here 
for thee, mamma wishes thee to stay 
with us all the time we are allowed in 
the parlor.” 

Jeanne went towards the baroness, a 
little agitated, and blushing with the 
embarrassment and awkwardness of a 
young girl of fifteen, who had lived far 
from the world. The affectionate and 
kind welcome of Mme. de Blanchelande 
put her at once at her ease. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said she, “ it is I 
who have sent for you. I know that 
you love well this bad little head, which 
gives me great pleasure, for they have 
told me that you are as good as you are 
wise. I have long wished to know and 
thank you.” 

“ Oh ! but it is kind in you, mamma, 
to have done that,” cried Victorine. “ It 
is more than a year since I have wished 
to ask you to send for Jeanne to talk 
with us ; and then, you know, I didn’t 
dare. She is however, pleasant to look 
at — my Jeanne — is she not, mamma?” 

During this deluge of words., Jeanne 
did not find time to put in a word, but 
the moist look in her beautiful eyes, her 
sweet smile, and the visible beating of 
her heart, spoke for her, and thanked 
the baroness more eloquently than 
words could have done. 

The impetuous Victorine held her 
mother and friend each by a hand. She 
led them both into a corner, and they 
were soon engaged in one of those con- 
versations in which she gave all the 
news without much reluctance. Jeanne 


could hardly get a few words, from time 
to time, into the midst of this incessant 
gabble. 

The baroness, who rather spoiled her 
daughter, allowed this flow of words 
to pass, and took advantage of Jeanne’s 
attention to study her more at her ease. 
The physiognomy of Mile. Derville was 
full of promise, and she at once saw the 
marks of intelligence and distinction 
that they had boasted of so much to her. 
She wished to see if the song resembled 
the feathers ; and as soon as she thought 
her daughter had chattered on enough, 
she led the conversation herself, with 
that delicacy and tact that is given by 
the knowledge of the world and expe- 
rience in life. She questioned her, with- 
out seeming to do so. She had the art 
of leading Jeanne to talk precisely of 
those things which would reveal her 
character and make known her soul. 
This hour of talk flew like a moment, 
and the baroness found herself as much 
pleased with what she heard, as with 
what she saw. 

“ Mademoiselle, we will meet again 
sometimes, I hope,” said she, while kiss- 
ing Jeanne, who arose to leave, a little 
before the time when they would be no- 
tified to retire. “ I shall have great 
pleasure in asking for you each time. 
Victorine will love my visits much bet- 
ter if you share them with her; and I, 
in seeing you together, will imagine I 
have two daughters instead of one.” 

Jeanne thanked her as well as she 
could ; that is to say, with an exquisite 
and perfectly natural grace, for her ti- 
midity had given way to a modest con- 
fidence which had enabled her to become 
herself again. 

She had the good taste to go first, so 
as to leave Victorine alone with her 
mother for a few moments — a proof of 
delicacy and tact that did not escape 
the notice of the baroness. 

“ Well, mamma, how do you find 
her ?” asked the spoiled child. 

“ Much better than thee,” replied the 
baroness. 

“ Oh ! say that again. That does not 
make me jealous. Go on !” 

“ Thou canst only improve with such 
a friend, and I advise thee to keep her 
a long time.” 

“ Oh ! all my life,” said Victorine, 
with the enthusiastic ardor of a young 


42 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


soul. “ Thou dost not then know that 
Jeanne Derville is my ‘ adoration V ” 

“ Thy ‘ adoration !' The word is a 
little strong.” 

“Oh no, mamma; it is the one we 
use at Saint Denis. Our great friend, 
the one we love most, is called our 
1 adoration/ I confess, however, that 
the ladies do not like us to use this 
word ; but that is nothing. I am also 
Jeanne’s ‘ adoration/ as she is mine. 
Next Thursday, mamma, with Jeanne ; 
is it not, mamma ?” 

“ Yes, with Jeanne, with thy ‘ adora- 
tion/” replied the baroness, kissing ten- 
derly the blue eyes of her daughter. 

The two friends were together a few 
moments before the end of the recess. 

“ Good news!” said Mile, de Blanche- 
lande to Mile. Derville. “Thou hast 
made a conquest of my mother, as it 
seems, mademoiselle, you will of all the 
world.” 

“ Hold thy tongue, little goose !” re- 
plied Jeanne, shrugging her shoulders. 
“ I shall be too happy if I am not dis- 
agreeable to her.” 

“ Behold, an affectation of modesty 
which does not dupe me* Thou hast 
delighted, charmed, enchanted her. I 
know her well, and I am certain of what 
I say.” 

“So much the better; then this may 
be the means of allowing us to see more 
of each other later.” 

“ A kiss for this good news.” 

As the period for the distribution of 
prizes drew near, Mile, de Boutaric, 
who, for one reason and another, had 
always put off the journey she ought to 
make to Paris, promised, this time, to 
honor with her presence this solemnity, 
which holds such a great place in the 
lives of the young girls, and which the 
imperial institution of Saint Denis sur- 
rounds with all kinds of pomp and great 
preparation. 

Jeanne thought on this occasion she 
ought to write to the marquise : 

“ Madame and \ Dear Protectress : — 
Fifteen days from to-day will be a great 
day for your little J eann e. I have passed 
three months in the class with the white 
girdles, and they assure me that I shall 
receive many prizes. How happy I shall 
be, if they are given to me in your pre- 
sence ! It will seem as if you did not 


believe me unworthy of your goodness. 
Our mistresses, who are very indulgent, 
are kind enough to say that they are 
satisfied with me. I have already passed 
through nearly all the classes, although 
I am yet far enough from the one they 
call the ‘ Perfection Class/ where they 
wear a belt which unites the colors of 
all the other divisions. It appears that 
when one has worn this belt for a year, 
one can learn nothing more at the school. 
I must then decide on the course I will 
take. I must then try to profit by the 
education I have so freely received. 
These ladies wish me well; they will 
not abandon me. I am sure they will 
do all in their power to obtain me a situ- 
ation which will guarantee my future. 
But I will not decide on anything, ma- 
dame la marquise, before asking your 
advice, apd with your consent. Madame 
la superintendante, who would be the 
best of women in my eyes if I had not 
the happiness of knowing you, thinks 
that it would be well for me to know 
what property belongs to me, if, indeed, 
I have any property — which I do not 
know. Do I possess anything ? It is 
the first time I have allowed myself to 
ask you such a question, and I hope, 
madame, you will not think it imperti- 
nent, for they have desired me to do so. 
I can only expect one answer ; and I do 
not deceive myself, that it will be soon 
necessary for me to work. But this ne- 
cessity does not frighten me, and I am 
resigned beforehand to do all in my 
power, so as not to be dependent on any 
one. I do not know what is before me 
in life ; but I feel that I will be strong 
to contend against everything, and to ac- 
complish everything, while your affec- 
tion remains with me. I hope I shall 
always be able to keep that, because I 
will try to be always worthy of it. 

Your very humble servant, 

Jeanne Derville. 

“ P. S. — I have merited this year by 
my work and behavior, the right to plant 
a tree of recompense in the garden, which 
is a great distinction, I am told by the 
ladies and all the great people.” 

Madame de Boutaric was as punctual 
in her correspondence as she was in all 
things. In three days, neither more nor 
less, Jeanne always received her replies, 
treating methodically, one after the other, 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


43 


all the subjects touched on by the young I 
girl. The marquise, in her letters, did 
not make many professions of affection, 
and did not expend her ink in useless 
protestations. It was not her way. But 
in all she wrote to the daughter of the 
colonel, she showed a sincere and devo- 
ted interest, that would have been found 
always active in the trials of life. 

As Jeanne became older, she had dis- 
tinguished the different shades of her 
protectress’s character; the brusque ways 
of the marquise did not hide her real 
goodness. She had, above all, done jus- 
tice to her unfailing good sense, to her 
strict rectitude, to her reliable judgment, 
from which nothing could make her de- 
viate. 

The uneasiness of Mile. Derville was, 
therefore, very great, when a week passed 
without hearing from Mme. de Boutaric. 

“ I do not understand this. I fear 
everything,” said she to Mile, de Blanche- 
lande. “ See, dear, it is the first time 
since I have been at St. Denis, that the 
marquise has left a letter of mine un- 
answered. Something serious has hap- 
pened there — I have bad presentiments 
— I dread some evil.” 

“ Why do you look thus on the dark 
side ?” replied the careless Victorine. 
“ A month ago thy marquise cut her 
hay, to-day she gathers her barley. Be 
quiet and fear nothing. I am certain 
she will surprise thee, on examination- 
day, in a robe with three flounce^.” 

“ God grant it ! But I know her 
better than you do. Mme. de Boutaric 
is not a woman of flounces, nor of sur- 
prises ; at least not of this kind. There 
is sorrow in the air for me.” 

Ten days passed without anything 
coming to ease Mile. Derville’s fears . 4 


CHAPTER VIII. 

O NE morning she was called into the 
study of the superintendent, who 
held in her fingers a letter, post-marked 
Avranches, and directed in an unknown 
hand. “ My dear child,” said the high 
dignitary, “ God, who knows how great 
your strength is, has sent you a new 
trial; you have lost your protectress, 
your second mother. Mme. la Baronne 
de Boutaric is no more — I have just re- 
ceived the news of her death. This 


noble lady has been carried off in a few 
days. She has sunk under an acute 
disease, against which the doctors found 
they were unable to contend from the 
first.” 

Jeanne listened silently to these few 
words; the words of reply would not 
come. One might have thought she had 
not understood — this news, so entirely 
unexpected, had thrown her into a sort 
of stupor. The superintendent looked 
silently at her, and did not try to abate 
the violence of this her first sorrow. 

In a few moments, the young girl, who 
had not opened her lips, dried, with the 
back of her hand, two big tears which 
ran down her cheeks. She then took 
the unsealed letter which the superin- 
tendent handed to her, and with slow 
and trembling fingers unfolded it. 

This letter was from M. Gravis, the 
notary of the marquise, and formerly 
also of the colonel. M. Gravis en- 
joyed the entire confidence of the mar- 
quise, as he had done that of M. Der- 
ville. It was he who had been employed 
to extricate the affairs of her inheritance, 
unfortunately so much involved ; and 
she remembered seeing him, more than 
once, at the Rosery, when she was a 
little girl. M. Gravis was economical 
of paper, which brought him nothing ; 
he loved only to write on leaves stamped 
with the arms of France ; no person 
knew better than himself, in each par- 
ticular, how many lines to a page, and 
how many letters to a line, and what was 
the value due him for these law papers 
so carefully prepared by his clerks. 

His epistle, therefore, on free paper, 
was short, and very slight of details. 
All the pith of the letter was contained 
in the postscript. Notaries do use, 
occasionally, this feminine artifice. 

" Mme. la Marquise has been carried 
off so suddenly that she had not time to 
arrange her affairs. She had died leav- 
ing no will, although I have several 
times urged her to place her last wishes 
in writing, and offered her the aid of 
my experience. It costs so little to put 
things in order. It will not make one 
die, and if it should, one has at least 
the consolation of having done the best 
they could for those they love.” 

Jeanne read and returned the letter 
to the superintendent without speaking. 
Big tears, that she did not feel, ran 


44 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOP. 


down her pale cheeks. The superin- 
tendent looked a long time at this young 
face, which emotion rendered still more 
full of interest and sensibility. Her 
looks filled her with almost maternal 
tenderness. Whilst Jeanne wept for 
her dead protectress and her lost friend, 
the superintendent, who knew better 
the necessities and requirements of life, 
thought also of the material conse- 
quences her death without a will (accord- 
ing to M. Gravis’s letter) would have 
for the, poor orphan, of whom the mar- 
quise was the sole dependence. The 
death of Mme. de Boutaric under such 
circumstances was absolute ruin for 
Jeanne. 

The friend of the colonel was rich, 
and her relations were very distant, and 
had never expected her property. 

On several occasions she had assured 
the notary that she would do something 
for “ this little Derville,” and Gravis did 
not doubt, that from his respectable client, 
“ this something” meant a great deal. 
He had never, for his part, neglected to 
encourage her in so praiseworthy an 
intention. He had been the friend of 
the colonel, he had a constant and faith- 
ful remembrance of him, and he felt a 
sincere interest in his daughter, whose 
success ne had heard of with true 
happiness. He was not less proud than 
the marquise when she showed him the 
reports that the institution sends out, 
each month, to the families of the 
pupils, as they do to the grand chancel- 
lor. Those of Jeanne were always so 
complimentary. 

Mme. de Boutaric had never allowed 
the young girl to suspect her generous 
intentions, because she believed (as do 
some narrow-minded persons) that the., 
threatening prospects of poverty would 
cause her to work harder. 

Although truly religious, the marquise 
had an instinctive and deep repugnance 
to enter into any act which could recall 
death to her thoughts. The idea of a 
will, for example, was particularly anti- 
pathetic to her. 

She said, as so many others have, 
“ There is no haste about that.” 

Death hastened, however ! He fell 
on the marquise as on his prey, and car- 
ried her off in three days. She took with 
her the last hope of Jeanne Derville’s 
fortune. But Jeanne, although know- 


ing her poverty, was not thinking of this 
question of money, which holds, alas ! 
such a large place in the life of some 
women. She was notan avaricious soul; 
and in this ruin of her prospects she 
wept only, for the wound of her heart. 

“ Behold me again an orphan !” mur- 
mured she, in a low tone, whilst her 
head rested sadly on her breast. “ I had 
still one loved one in this world, and she 
has gone — now I have nothing !” 

“ You are mistaken, my child,” said 
the superintendent, taking her hand. 
“ G-od remains to you above, and below 
you ; the sympathy of all who know 
the affection of all who come near 
you. Your lot is still beautiful, and I 
know many women who would envy 
you.” 

“ You are right, madame,” said Jeanne, 
drying her large eyes. “ I was ungrate- 
ful towards heaven and earth, towards 
G-od and towards you.” 

“Without counting this good Vic- 
torine de Blanchelande, who loves you 
like a sister !” 

“ Oh, that is true ! and I love her also. 
But there are times when, overwhelmed 
by sorrow and trouble, one seems to for- 
get all.” 

“ I know that ; but it is precisely at 
these times that we must display all our 
courage, and show that we are stronger 
than destiny. Remember of what blood 
you are born. You are the daughter of 
a brave soldier. Be brave as he ! We 
are women ; it is not on the battle-field 
and at given hour that we can show our 
valor. It is everywhere; it is every 
day, every hour, every minute. Our 
task is less famous than that of men ; 
it is not less painful, nor less meritorious. 
Be assured of that, my child.” 

The superintendent knew Jeanne Der- 
ville well enough to be certain that it 
was not necessary to urge her. It was 
sufficient in this as in all else, to point 
out things to start the young girl on her 
course. She would know well how to 
run it herself to the very end. 

An affectionate gesWre dismissed the 
orphan. 

“We must confess,” thought the su- 
perintendent, as Jeanne left the study ; 

“ we must confess that, so far, fate has 
not spared the poor child. The blows 
follow each other as if to crush her. She 
is struck, wounded at the same time in 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


45 


her interests and her affections. Not one 
trial has been spared her ! But she is 
young, and life is long V* 


CHAPTER IX. 

Y ICTORINE, meanwhile, had been 
alone, worrying as an unmated 
bird. She was beginning to be uneasy 
at the long absence of her friend ; she 
knew that Jeanne had been called to the 
study of the superintendent, who rarely, 
and only on great occasions, thus hon- 
ored the pupils. She considered that 
those in authority should be reserved, 
and that by remaining generally hidden 
and invisible, she would best preserve 
her prestige. Let it be known that this 
honor was not much desired ; for the 
communications which gave rise to the 
summons were usually unpleasant rather 
than agreeable. Jeanne's conduct was 
always so irreproachable in all respects 
that Victorine had no fear in seeing her 
go. But as the interview lasted much 
longer than usual, her little head set to 
work, and because she knew nothing, 
she became apprehensive of everything. 

The recess ended before Jeanne’s re- 
turn. 

Victorine’s heart beat quickly when 
she saw her friend enter the school- 
room. By ill luck they were not placed 
near each other, and the incorruptible 
Jeanne always showed unvarying obedi- 
ence to the rule of silence. She must 
still wait a long time for the explanation 
so earnestly desired. The eyes of the 
pretty inquisitive essayed several times 
to employ the intervention of the tele- 
graph, not electric, but very convenient, 
which they use in the boarding-schools 
of young girls, as well as in the colleges 
of boys. But the wandering glance of 
the overseer, who suspected something 
going from one to the other, did not 
allow even of this kind of communica- 
tion, unsatisfactory as it might be. 

After school came the hours of confi- 
dences. 

Jeanne related all. Victorine replied, 
in these charming words : “ I almost 
rejoice at thy misfortunes ; for I, alone, 
am left to love thee now ! Fear nothing; 
I will love thee enough to make up for 
all those whom thou hast lost !” 

“ Oh ! how good you are !” 


“ I do not know about that. I only 
know I love thee !” 

The tribute of tears to the marquise 
being paid, Jeanne naturally commenced 
thinking of her future, darkened by sad 
forebodings. The lot of orphans is sad : 
deprived of their natural protectors ; of 
their family, who ought to dream of 
their future and settle their fate. The 
thoughts, in such conditions, are natu- 
rally grave and serious. But in courage- 
ous natures, uneasiness does not pro- 
duce discouragement. The understand- 
ing, clear and true, that she had of 
things roused Jeanne, as a new goad to 
give herself up, without truce or mercy, 
to the work which now alone could sus- 
tain her. 

The day of the distribution of prizes, 
to which a few days before she had so 
joyously invited Madame de Bout- 
aric, surprised hef in the midst of her 
sorrow. It is useless to add, that she 
no longer enjoyed the success that she 
obtained. Her thoughts were elsewhere; 
and her remembrances had gone, un- 
happily, to those who were no more. 

Victorine, who returned home to her 
family for the holidays, was obliged to 
leave her, unwillingly, for two long 
months. New subject of sadness ! 

Mme. de Blanchelande saw this* and 
in a burst of goodness and sensibility, 
for which she must have all the credit 
(for her daughter never so much as 
dared to ask it), she solicited as a favor 
permission to take Mile. Derville to the 
country with her friend. 

They replied that this was absolutely 
impossible, for Jeanne’s father, in dying, 
had expressed the wish that his daughter 
should be reared in strict seclusion ; and 
that she could not leave the institution 
until her education was entirely finished. 

Only one person had had the right, 
formerly, to order or permit it. This 
was the marquise, guardian of Jeanne ; 
but this lady dying, the superintendent 
was obliged henceforth to conform to 
the wishes of the father. 

All this was so just, that no objection 
or reply could be made. The baroness 
understood it; and the two young 
friends felt it, also, as well as herself. 
Jeanne resigned herself to pass again 
these long and cruel weeks, which took 
from her all she loved. August and 
September weighed heavily on her. 


46 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


One cannot sufficiently understand how 
sad the holidays are for the poor 
scholars obliged to remain at school. 
With what swelling hearts, and eyes 
full of tears, do they see on distribution 
day, depart, one after another, their 
companions, their friends, and (to use 
Yictorine’s expression) even their ado- 
rations abandon them. 

And the next day, how deserted the 
great house seems ! What loneliness in 
the class-rooms, what silence in the 
courts, only yesterday so noisy ! How 
small one seems in the refectory where 
there is no one else ! You work a little 
to pass the unoccupied hours ; but you 
work slowly and without zeal. The 
mistresses who take care of you, pity 
you, and, in a low tone, pity each other. 
Every one feels that such things ought 
not to be. 

For the others, it is the time for 
going about on long visits to friends, for 
joys and comforts in the bosom of the 
family; and one unhappy child is left 
there, all alone, without friends, without 
relations. Ah ! surely we cannot blame 
her for being sad. 

Jeanne, naturally, as all prisoners of 
time, had made a little calendar, on 
which was inscribed all the days which 
must pass before she could see Yictorine. 
Each evening she scratched one out. 
The last was effaced in its turn, and the 
next day Mile, de Blanchelande would 
return to her. 

What happiness, after such long 
absence, to see again the one she loves 1 
Jeanne now found all easy and simple. 
The future smiled on her under the eyes 
of Yictorine. 

On commencing her studies again, 
she entered into the class called “ Per- 
fection/’ where they reviewed all that 
had been the subjects of the preceding 
courses, and where the professors and 
mistresses gave to their master-pieces of 
scholars the last touches and highest 
polish. 

Jeanne this year made heroic efforts, 
and surprised even those who had for 
so long followed and admired the de- 
velopment of all the resources of this 
her rich and beautiful nature. 

It was, truly, for Mile. Derville a per- 
fection. The word was, indeed, appli- 
cable to her. The flower of her soul 
opened in all its splendor. Alive to all 


that was beautiful and good ; earnestly 
applying, and industrious, as the noble 
woman always is, who desires to win by 
her own efforts, Jeanne had been imbued 
with science, as the soft white fleece be- 
comes imbued with the tint that is given 
to it. She shone in all her brightness 
during the examinations. When great 
persons came to visit St. Denis, she was 
the one always examined before them. 
More than one august look had rested 
on this interesting young girl with visi- 
ble pleasure. More than one solicitude, 
as high as benevolent, was informed of 
the future destined for this exquisite ir*- 
telligence, this thrilling beauty. Un- 
happily, nothing seems more difficult in 
France than to arrange the lot of a young 
girl, because it is only completed with 
the concurrence of a good husband, 
which is a rare bird not unnestled every 
day. Jeanne understood, guessed, or 
foresaw all that; but her pride forbade 
the thought from being read even by 
her best friend. She remained silently 
waiting. 


CHAPTER X. 

I N the meantime, the superintendent, 
who had such great esteem and true 
affection for Jeanne, interested herself 
in the future of her beautiful favorite. 
She felt as much fear as sorrow in 
launching into this vast world, alone, 
exposed to all its temptations and 
hazards, a young girl ignorant of every- 
thing not learnt in books ; one whose 
attractions, even, became for her so 
many snares. A wise woman, she de- 
sired before acting to know the exact 
state of her heroine’s finances. So she 
wrote to the notary of Avranches a letter 
of inquiry, to which her name and offi- 
cial title gave such authority that she 
must receive a serious reply. The no- 
tary answered immediately in his most 
beautiful style and handwriting — the 
hand and style of a notary. He in- 
formed Mme. lasuperintendante that the 
settling of M. Derville’s affairs was un- 
fortunate. He had done all in his 
power to take up all his notes without 
making great sacrifices; but the court 
had, nevertheless, directed the sale of all 
that remained of the colonel’s property. 
He felt happy, however, in having saved 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


47 


from the ruin the house and garden, 
with a few acres in the enclosure behind. 
“ I could not do better ; others might 
have done worse. The pretty situation 
and whole appearance of the house ; the 
satisfactory arrangements of the details; 
the perfect order of the place, and, per- 
mit me to add, my personal knowledge 
of what is best in its surroundings, have 
enabled me to rent the whole place and 
furniture for the sum of 465 francs a 
year, charging to the lessee the land and 
personal property tax, the levy on doors 
and windows, and the fire insurance pre- 
mium. You see, madame, I have for- 
gotten nothing. 

“ Col. Derville’s chief creditor has 
been very accommodating, for if he had 
been evilly disposed he could have com- 
pelled the sale of the house. He has 
not only not done that, but, on the con- 
trary, has been contented with an 
assignment of rents arranged by myself. 
In three years the last debt will be paid, 
and the daughter of our dear colonel can 
take possession of her estate. I have 
secured, also, a saving from her mother’s 
dower, amounting to the sum of 3,500 
francs, invested by me, and now bearing 
interest, for which I declare myself, by 
this letter, a debtor to the heiress, and 
which may serve for her first necessaries 
on leaving Saint Denis. If Mile. Der- 
ville ever needs the advice of a business 
man, she can address, with all confidence, 
the one who has the honor to be,” &c. 

Without pausing very long on the 
forms of M. Gravis’s politeness, the 
superintendent calculated mentally, but 
with an accuracy that experience in 
business matters gives to all the world, 
even to women, the amount of Jeanne’s 
resources. 

“Very little,” thought she, “ as this 
good man says. ' We cannot expect such 
a young girl to enter the world dressed 
as she is here. Her outfit will soon 
swallow up a good part of the notary’s 
savings. Only her little house will be 
left — a souvenir of her family— a ground 
of sentiment, but not of support. Our 
pension of five hundred francs a year 
does not last long. In three years she 
will no longer receive it. She must gain 
her bread. Well, she will gain it. Our 
society, even if as badly regulated as I 
am told, cannot be so lost, but that a 
young, honest, talented girl, full of en- 
4 


ergy and resolution, can gain in it an 
honest livelihood.” 

The feelings of the superintendent, so 
favorable to Jeanne, were entered into 
by all the ladies of Saint Denis. But 
these good ladies had more will than 
power, and would have been much em- 
barrassed if forced to carry out all their 
good intentions. 

The superintendent sent for Jeanne 
to come again to her study, a few days 
before the time of her final departure. 

“ My dear child,” said she, “ your edu- 
cation is finished, and soon you will be 
free. But your position is singular, and 
requires very serious attention. Thanks 
be to God, your reason is in advance of 
your age. Several who have showed in 
this House talent and energy, have after- 
wards wounded our affection, and sullied 
this beautiful title of 1 Pupil of Saint 
Denis,’ which they dishonor by bearing. 
I am convinced we have nothing of that 
kind to fear from you. Indeed, it is not 
for ourselves, but for you, I speak thus. 
Have you ever thought of your future, 
my child ?” 

“ Often, madame.” 

“ Indeed ! Tell me how it seems to* 
you.” 

“As something unknown, terrible; as 
an enemy against whom I must contends 
But I accept the contest.” 

“ I am glad to see you in such a frame 
of mind. I have known for a long time 
that you were brave. But have you de- 
cided on any scheme ?” 

“ How can I, when, as yet, I am ig- 
norant of the world or life — -when the 
walls of our House have bounded my 
views for so long a time — when the en- 
closure of this park is the extent of my 
horizon ? I wait !” 

“ Jeanne,” replied the directress of 
Saint Denis, with great sw r eetness, “if 
we had not thought of the difficulties of 
the position in which, unfortunately,, 
young girls such as you are placed, hav- 
ing neither family nor fortune, ’we would, 
be very culpable, or, at least, imprudent. 
But this is not so. We have in Our 
hands a last resource, which we use only 
in favor of those who have deserved it 
by their irreproachable conduct. 

“You can now return to others that 
which you have received from us. After 
having been a scholar, you can become 
a teacher. You need never leave us. 


48 


TIIE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


This House can be always yours, and as 
it has served as an asylum to your child- 
hood and youth, it can also be a refuge 
for your whole life. Your beginning 
will be humble, and probably rather 
hard ; but I know that here you need 
fear nothing. You do not dread trouble, 
and when one has your ability, progress 
is certain, advancement rapid. You will 
soon reach an honorable, independent 
position, assured for life.” 

Jeanne listened with the most re- 
spectful attention to the superintendent, 
who could but admire the attitude of the 
young girl, full of dignity and grace. 
Mile. Derville was standing before her 
— her beautiful eyes lowered, her two 
hands leaning on the back of an arm- 
chair, while from time to time a color 
stole over her cheeks, and a visible emo- 
tion swelled her breast. 

To stay at Saint Denis all her life ! 
The prospect was not attractive — and we 
•can affirm that it was not the destiny she 
had foreseen in her girlish dreams. Yes, 
truly, she was full of gratitude to the 
House, where she had found so hospita- 
ble a welcome, such devoted care, such 
a complete education. But Saint Denis, 
if good for a time, for one’s whole life 
became very bad. 

Jeanne knew nothing of the world, 
and this she frankly acknowledged. Yet 
even her ignorance was full of vague 
hopes and unavowed desires. She did 
not feel courageous enough to drive them 
back into her heart; she had not yet 
lived as she desired to live. Her heart 
was filled with unknown trouble, and 
with an agitation that was not without 
charm or sorrow, she shuddered at the 
thought of engulfing her ardent youth, 
(eager for all the joys of which God im- 
plants the need and gives the hope to 
his creatures,) in the cold austerity of 
an almost monastic asylum. Could one 
require such a sacrifice from a young 
girl whose whole life had been, until 
now, shut up in the straight surround- 
ings of a boarding school, but who carried 
within herself a soul all ready to unfold ? 
Was Mile. Derville then necessarily what 
is called a romantic person ? Some 
might say no ! But she contained in 
herself a thousand germs which would, 
in time, develop. She did not know the 
use she would make of her liberty ; but 
she did not wish to give it away before 


tasting it. She was so undecided that 
she could not reply to the questions so 
clear and distinct of the superintendent. 
That high dignitary understood this 
uncertainty and this emotion, she there- 
fore paused some minutes to allow 
Jeanne time for reflection. “ Well !” 
said she at last. “ What course will you 
take ? What do you decide ? I await 
your reply.” 

Jeanne started as if awakened by a 
shock ; she trembled, and a * nervous 
paleness spread over her face. The word 
she was going to speak, was it not the 
word of her destiny ? The look she now 
raised had no more the timidity of a 
young scholar before her dreaded mis- 
tress. This look, though full of defer- 
ence, was stamped with cold firmness 
and calm resolution. 

“ Madame la Superintendent,” said 
she, “I do not think it necessary to 
speak here of my gratitude ; I am pene- 
trated with your goodness to me ; and it 
would be the greatest happiness that 
could happen to my life to pass it near 
you.” 

After this ingenious sentence, which 
her mistress, of rhetoric (now-a-days 
these young ladies study rhetoric as 
well as ourselves,) had doubtlessly called 
an “An exordium by insinuation,” there 
was an imperceptible stop. 

“ Then you accept?” said the super- 
intendent, auguring other than she need 
have done from the first part of this 
reply. . , 

“Not at present,” replied Jeanne, 
with great quickness. 

“ Why ? When then, my child ?” 

“ I do not exactly know when, 
madame ; undoubtedly little later than 
now.” 

“ Later ! Later ! You surely know 
that when one leaves the institution 
they cannot return ?” 

Jeanne knew this, and did not reply 
directly to the observation. “ The fit- 
ness for this life, though it is rather 
severe, is not given to all,” replied she ; 
“ and I am forced to acknowledge that 
as yet I have it not ; but I will use my 
greatest effort to gain it, and if I have 
the happiness to feel it within me I will 
come throw myself at your feet, and 
implore you to pardon my hesitation of 
to-day. This pardon I feel you will 
grant me, because you are just and good, 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


49 


and will see in my refusal only the proof 
of my sincere, earnest desire to fulfil 
worthily all my obligations, should I 
once assume them.” 

“ You do not wish to accept at pres- 
ent ?” 

“ I wish it — I cannot do so.” 

“ Reflect, my child ! it is your con- 
cern — the calling to he a professor, 
severe as you have just termed it, ought 
to be given to us, and no person can 
force it on another without the heaviest 
responsibilities. But tell me, however, 
what you think of doing when you leave 
here ? If you cannot remain with us, 
you cannot hinder us from following you 
everywhere in thought, with a serious 
and deep interest.” 

“ A visit to a friend during the va- 
cation, cannot, I suppose, be considered 
as leaving the house, in the sense the 
rules provide against, and forbid to 
those who wish to pass from scholars to 
mistresses, and then live for ever at 
Saint Denis. It is simply a little 
journey for health. After ten years 
passed between four walls, one needs a 
little fresh air. I intend to accept the 
invitation made so long ago by Mine. La 
Baronne de Blanchelande, and go home 
with my dear Yictorine. During one or 
two months I will reflect and examine 
myself, and on my return, you will read 
my soul. You will tell me what I ought 
to do, and I will do what you say.” 

“ Go ! I see you are lost to us, my 
beautiful obstinate one. Set out ! may 
God bless you, and life be merciful to 
you. You have been at Saint Denis 
long enough to desire to quit it. I have 
not always been sixty, and I can easily 
put myself in your place. Go, then, 
wherever the unknown destiny calls 
you. Our good wishes will follow you. 
I desire only one thing for you. May 
you be as happy as you deserve to be. 
Your education is finished. You rank 
among the best of all our scholars. It 
is right you should carry from here the 
proof of our satisfaction. Ygur diplo- 
mas are ready, your high marks, the 
results of your examinations and your 
competitions, are faithfully recorded. 
All these are to be sent, to-day, to the 
Grand Chancellor of the Legion of 
Honor, with the formal demand, that I 
make in your behalf to his excellency, 
for the title of scholar of Saint Denis. 


You know this is a real title, much 
envied, of which, as we are very spar- 
ing, it becomes more and more difficult 
to gain. It is obtained only by the 
choicest of our scholars. You shall 
have it. I know that too often some 
wicked persons, who abuse everything, 
do not fear falsely to claim titles which 
do not belong to them. We are taking 
means to punish these, forgers, and our 
diplomas will stil! keep all their 
prestige.” After speaking thus, in her 
grand manner, the superintendent dis- 
missed the young girl. 

When Jeanne left the study, she felt 
as if a weight of lead was raised from 
her breast — she breathed more freely. 
It seemed as if the walls had burst to 
let her pass, and that she entered, at 
last, free of foot, into the world, into 
life. But her joy was mixed, neverthe- 
less, with secret apprehensions. She 
had shown to the superintendent a deci- 
sion which she did not feel. When 
she opened her mouth to say no , she did 
not know but she ought to say yes. But 
at the decisive moment, she seemed to 
hear the voice of nature, which no 
longer permitted hesitation, and carried 
her by its loyal frankness. With such 
a personage as the superintendent, to 
hesitate in accepting was to refuse. 
Her lot was cast. 

Jeanne had herself pronounced the 
word of her destiny, and there was no re- 
versing her decision; that she knew well ; 
yet she experienced a relief. There 
are some souls, for whom uncertainty is 
the most cruel thing in the world. 

Only from the brightness in her large 
eyes, and her carriage, her head high, 
Yictorine, who was familiar with the 
slightest expression of the young .girl, 
and who guessed even the thoughts of 
her friend, from the compressed lips, 
trembling motion, and puckering brows, 
saw, at once, something serious had oc- 
curred. 

“What is it?” said she, gazing in 
her face. 

“ I belong to thee,” replied Jeanne, 
“ never to leave thee. I have sacrificed 
what they call my whole future. Take 
me then — lead me away— between us 
now, all is for life and death !” 

“ The world is ours !” cried Yictorine, 
with holy confidence, a noble exaltation 
which youth alone knows. 


50 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A FEW days afterwards, the two 
friends took part in the last distri- 
bution of prizes they would ever see at the 
Imperial Institution. As usual, Jeanne’s 
beautiful brow bent under the weight 
of crowns, and the daughter of the 
colonel was applauded by her young 
companions, with a warmth and enthusi- 
asm, which showed* to all that her heart 
was as good as her head, and that she 
knew how to make herself as much loved 
as admired. The Diploma of Honor 
was publicly decreed to her, with the 
ceremonies used on this solemn occasion. 

She left the same evening, for ever, 
the house where she had passed her 
youth. The Baroness de Blanchelande 
took her away with her daughter. 

Jeanne, in passing the threshold of 
the door which she had- not crossed for 
ten years, felt a deep undefinable emo- 
tion. Great as was her joy at being 
released, she still felt heavy-hearted. 
She only remembered, that behind these 
dark walls, she had left the greater part 
of her life ; that she had there tasted 
the pure joys of friendship ; that there 
she had been taught the stern charms 
of labor. Work and friendship, these 
two great things! After all, she had 
passed many happy hours in this life ; 
and even if she should never regret 
leaving there, she would always recollect 
it with grateful pleasure. 

Let us say, nevertheless, this ray of 
feeling will last, only as lasts the light- 
ning. Other impressions will soon re- 
place this flying impression, as other 
ideas will soon fill her young soul. 
Jeanne Derville, was she not at the 
happy age where woman looks always to 
the future and never to the past. 

The carriage of Mme. de Blanche- 
lande was one of those wonderful affairs, 
with eight soft springs, whose oval body 
resembles the sea-shell in which the 
painters place their mermaids floating 
on the blue waves. It rocked gently the 
three ladies. Jeanne could not have 
been more delighted, if she had mounted 
into the carriage of a king at a time 
when such a jaunt was equal to receiv- 
ing the title of nobility. 

The baroness drove two half-blooded 
trotters, whose rapid steps were admired 
by everybody at the Bois. It is charming 


to go fast; especially in youth, when 
one is always in a hurry ! They passed 
through the popular quarters that the 
young girl did not know. What could 
she knjnv out of St. Denis.? Her 
friend named everything as they passed, 
and enjoyed her ingenuous astonish- 
ment. Soon they came to the Boule- 
vards in the midst of the brilliant splen- 
dors of Paris. It was late — nearly night, 
but the Parisian nights, have they not 
the brightness of day ? The gas shining 
everywhere, the dazzling shop-windows, 
the fronts of the restaurants, resplen- 
dent with light, a busy, cheerful, joyous 
crowd, going and coming along the 
walks ; on either side, those high houses, 
whilst the too numerous equipages dis- 
puted the too narrow street. 

“ Is not all this beautiful?” murmur- 
ed Yictorine in Jeanne’s ear. 

“ Oh ! truly beautiful,” replied Jeanne, 
whose eyes were wild with this novel 
spectacle. They soon reached the Bou- 
levard Italien, that brilliant focus of 
feverish activity and ardent pleasures, 
where the great capital displays itself 
in its whole strength. The carriage 
took a road to the left, lessened its 
speed, and soon the coachman cried, 
with a solemn, resounding voice, u Open 
the gate ! if you please.” 

The gate instantly opened, and the 
keeper, covered with lace on all his coat- 
seams, rang the bell of the apartments, 
when a grand lackey, powdered like 
hoar-frost, lowered the carriage-steps. 

The three ladies ascended a large 
white marble staircase, covered in the 
centre with a thick, red carpet. The 
apartment was on the first floor. Yic- 
torine, who mounted four steps at a 
time, entered first, ran quickly through 
the ante-room, opened the door of a little 
parlor, and threw her arms around the 
neck of a gentleman who was standing 
before her. “ Good day, father ! Here 
we are !” 

The one Yictorine saluted with this 
honored name, was a gentleman still 
young, elegant in his appearance, and 
well dressed. His blonde hair, like his 
daughter’s, was lighted at his temples 
by some threads of silver, which were 
not unbecoming to him. After embrac- 
ing Yictorine, he held out his hand to 
the baroness, and bowed to Mile. Der- 
ville with a courteous grace, of which 


TEE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


51 


the dancing-master at St. Denis could 
not have had the least conception. 

“Papa, this is Jeanne ! my friend!” 
said Yictorine, by way of an introduc- 
tion. 

“ We have known you for a long time, 
mademoiselle,” replied M. de Blanche- 
lande ; “ my daughter has often spoken 
of you. We have long known that you 
have been good enough to love, a little, 
this mischievous little head ; who, for 
her part, adores you. We will all do as 
she has done,” added he, in such a way 
that there was not too much meaning to 
his words. 

Jeanne, rather embarrassed, did not 
know how to reply. 

Mme. de Blanchelande, worn out by the 
fatigues of a long day’s trip, had gone 
to her room. She did not, therefore, 
hear the baron’s compliment, of which 
Yictorine took no notice. 

“ Papa, I am hungry,” said she, in 
the tone of an only daughter ; and her 
tone showed, decidedly, she was used to 
being obeyed. 

“ Oh! you are always hungry! You 
did not dine at Saint Denis ? then why 
did you come home so late ?” 

“ Well! what if we did eat a little 
bite, as we were leaving, in a great hurry, 
and so bad, as it always is — as you well 
know — at school ?” 

, “ What a tone you use, my contempt- 
uous beauty ! ’ 

“We have no desire to return there 
soon ! neither my little Jeanne nor I ! 
We have put our four pieces of linen 
into five bundles; ^atfhas taken us some 
time ! Think, then, of the packing and 
moving of the things of two great cha- 
racters, who have been there for ten 
years ! Then, there was no end to the 
farewells ! They would willingly have 
kept us ; all wished to embrace us, and 
Jeanne especially ! If we had allowed 
these ladies to have their way, I believe 
we would be there still ; but all that has 
hollowed my stomach — if I have any 
left !” 

“ Goodness ! don’t cry ; search, per- 
haps you can find a little bread in the 
house. With such teeth, and your ap- 
petite of eighteen years, you ought not 
to be hard to suit.” 

“ Of course,” replied Yictorine, pout- 
ing, “we have learnt how to fast else- 
where, and we do know how to be con- 


tented with a little; but a kind little 
papa, who wished to do the polite, would 
invite us to sup at a restaurant !” 

“ Oh ! that is it? You want to go 
to a public-house ? Indeed ! miss ; you 
who were this morning at a convent !” 

“ Well ! what is the harm ?” 

“ You, who still wear that stuff gar- 
ment which makes you look like a little 
nun ? No ! truly, Victorine, you can- 
not mean that !” 

“ On the contrary, that is just what I 
do mean ; it is the only means you have 
to un-nun us a little. I can put on one 
of my last year’s dresses in a minute.” 

“ And mademoiselle ? what will she 
do ?” said M. de Blanchelande, looking 
at Jeanne, who was discreetly employed 
in contemplating two enormous engrav- 
ings, one representing the Epsom Races, 
and the other the Chantilly Hippodrome, 
on the day they contest the French 
Derby. 

“ True,” replied Yictorine, with 
charming vivacity, “ I forgot Jeane has 
nothing to wear but this hideous uui- 
form. Yery well ! I will not wear a 
dress when she has none ; I do not wish 
to be prettier than she is.” 

“ But”— 

“ There are no huts ; take us both as 
we are, father !” 

“ You ought to be a John Bull,” said 
the baron, touching his daughter on the 
forehead; “you are so obstinate. We 
always have to end by giving up.” 

“ Indeed, father, I think you had 
better commence by doing so ; it would 
be an economy of time.” 

The baron shrugged his shoulders — 
it was his only reply. 

“ Where do you think we are going ?” 
said he to Mme. de Blanchelande, who at 
this moment returned to the parlor. 
“ Your daughter will absolutely go sup at 
a restaurant ! Will it really do for me 
to take them?” 

“ For once. I do not think it will be 
out of the way.” 

“ Will you go with us ?” 

“No, indeed! my day’s journey is 
complete without that. Take the girls, 
and do not stay too late !” 

They all three went ; the baron as 
joyous and gay as the young girls. He 
had the air of a schoolboy a thome 
for the holidays. In five minutes they 
reached the door of the restaurant, 


52 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


where the baron was known. He | 
ascended the staircase and installed the 
two girls in an entresol cabinet, deco- 
rated with vulgar brilliancy, which, 
nevertheless, seemed to the little board- 
ing-school girl to merit the title of mag- 
nificent, in its highest sense. She was 
especially dazzled by a certain paper, 
honeycombed and gilt, which seemed to 
her of an incomparable richness. 

The baron selected his bill of fare as 
carefully as if he was giving supper to 
two ambassadresses ; he did not forget 
certain Moselle wines, which, he said, 
had the gift of tongues, and on which 
he relied to make his two comrades chat. 

“ I am certain,” said Victorine, “that 
Jeanne has never before supped at a 
restaurant?” 

“ No, indeed ! never !” 

“ Then,” said the baron, “we will set 
our best things before you — you need 
not refer to the bill of fare.” 

Monsieur de Blanchelande, like all 
good livers, was charmingly entertaining 
at table. He possessed, in the great- 
est degree, those open-hearted manners 
which set all at their ease. 

The young girls picked some shell- 
fish with their fingers; and already 
Jeanne unconsciously talked with the 
father as freely as with the daughter. 
Her light prattle charmed the baron, 
who delighted to see her spirit, spark- 
ling as the white froth of the good wine 
that crowned her glass. 

Mile. Derville had no apprehensions. 
What could she fear in such company ? 
Mile. Derville filled her glass — she drank. 
As a provocative agent, she only was 
familiar with the weak wine and water 
of the boarding-school. She yielded to 
the perfidious and dangerous sweetness 
of the light wine of “ Ai,” without 
taking sufficient food. Soon she felt an 
unknown warmth penetrate her, which 
was pleasant and. joyous at first, and 
whose dangers she did not perceive un- 
til later. Her eyes shone with a new 
light that Victorine had never seen. 
Bright piquant words rose unsought to 
her lips. She was astonished at her 
own witticisms. One would think an- 
other woman had taken her place ; as 
the butterfly takes that of the chrysalis, 
astonishing the beholders by her bril- 
liant metamorphosis. 

Victorine naively asked if they had 


not substituted some one else for her 
friend during the journey. The Jeanne 
she had known, was a thoughtful, mel- 
ancholy individual, sweet, sad, rather 
timid. The one now before her was as 
mischievous as an imp, as light as a 
page, as gay as a bird. 

There however, came a moment, when 
Jeanne, after being giddy with her 
words, and mystified in her spirits, felt 
by degrees her heavy head roll on her 
shoulders, a torpor weighed down all 
her members, her eyelids became so 
heavy, it was impossible to raise them 
without a violent effort. Her lips, that 
had just uttered such brilliant sallies, 
now moved but silently. Her tongue, 
lately so quick at repartee, muttered un- 
intelligible words. “ I am sleepy,” said 
she, in a low tone, turning from her 
friend her beautiful, but useless, eyes; 
and/leaning against the side of a mirror, 
her pretty little head, pale and fatigued. 

“ You shall go to bed, my child,” 
said M. de Blanchelande, who could not 
help smiling as he looked at her. He 
rang the bell, paid his bill, and put on 
their hats. Jeanne remained immovable 
leaning against the door. 

“What is the matter?” asked Victo- 
rine. 

“ I feel as if my limbs were gone.” 

“ Try and recover them, unhappy one. 
Let us see then, what is the matter with 
her, papa? Oh, you look so wickedly !” 

The gas had ' heated the room till it 
was nearly suffocating. 

M. de Blanchelande opened the win- 
dow; a breath of fresh air on Jeanne's 
face, revived her a little. Victorine 
placed on her shoulders a cape like her 
dress, which she wore this evening for 
the last time, and which had, most cer- 
tainly, not expected to end its virtuous 
career in such a compromising adventure. 

The baron passed out first; the two 
young girls followed. Jeanne, on leaving 
the saloon, found herself facing a steep 
enough staircase ; she was seized with a 
sudden faintness, which she conquered 
by her resolute will. Holding by the 
bannisters, she commenced her descent; 
once on the threshold, she was safe. 
M. de Blanchelande took her hand and 
drew it in his arm, which support she 
needed at this moment most amazingly. 

Victorine walked on the other side of 
her father. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


53 


“ I think, papa, you have made my 
little friend tipsy,” said she, shaking 
her finger. 

“ Oh, no ! it is nothing, she is only 
overcome by the heat.” 

“Yes, the heat or the wine; I will 
ask mamma.” 

“ It is not worth while for you to do 
that. Your mother will be in bed — 
you must not wake her — to-morrow this 
little surprise will be forgotten. Take 
Mile. Derville at once to her room. I 
will send Pauline to help you put her to 
bed. 

“ Let us get on, mademoiselle — a little 
more courage. How are these little 
feet — better ?” 

“ Much better — very well. Are we 
far from home ?” 

“No! close by. Here we are! Do 
you not know the door ?” 

Jeanne knew nothing — but she let 
them lead her. 

All passed off as M. de Blanchelande 
predicted. 

They undressed the young girl in a 
moment, put her to bed, and she soon 
slept the deep sleep only known to youth. 


CHAPTER XII. 

T HE next morning, Jeanne awoke at 
the hour the bell usually rang at 
Saint Denis. She had not been able to 
examine her room the night before, and 
was astonished at its magnificence, at the 
exquisite taste and comfort shown in 
every minute detail. Compared with 
the cold dormitory of the convent this 
room was worthy of a princess. 

The young girl examined the thousand 
knick knacks arranged with such taste 
on the table, mantelpiece, etag&re, of 
which she did not even know the use. 
She said to herself, “ What a good thing 
it is to be rich !” She would soon awake 
to real life, as at this moment she awoke 
to the light of day. She remembered 
nothing of the events of last evening — to 
confess the truth she had never been 
conscious of them ; she only knew she 
had taken supper at a restaurant with 
Victorine and her father — a very agree- 
able baron ; she remembered, also, but 
vaguely, that she had had a very bad 
headache, but nothing more. 

Victorine, not having yet forgotten 


her early rising, came in with her hair 
dishevelled and in her dressing-gown, 
with the proud indifference of youth, 
feeling it is beautiful, and sat down on 
the foot of the bed. She then com- 
menced one of those unceasing chats 
which young girls alone indulge in — for 
they alone never exhaust the chapter of 
confidences, and always living together 
they had a great deal to talk about. 

“You are coming on fast,” said Vic- 
torine to Jeanne. “ You take the prize 
for icisdom in the morning at Saint 
Denis, and you become tipsy the same 
evening at the English Coffee House. A 
fine debut, Jeanne darling. This is 
promising !” 

“ Upon my word I don’t understand 
you. I tipsy! Me! What is it you 
do say ?” 

“ How ! Do you remember nothing ?” 

“ No, indeed, nothing ! Only that 
we supped together in a little saloon on 
the Boulevard, that we came home, and — 
oh, yes ! I do not know how I got to 
bed!” 

“ I should think not ; they put you to 
bed, my beauty. You could not tell 
your right hand from your left, and your 
little feet drew some patterns on the 
floor.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” said Jeanne, over- 
whelmed with shame, hiding her face in 
her hands. “ Is this really so ?” 

“ Oh, I never fabricate !” 

“ Does your father know it ?” 

“ He has laughed enough about it !” 

“ Then all I can do is to say good-bye 
to thee, and go away ; for I can never 
dare look your father in the face again.” 

“ Oh, you little wretch ! I believe on 
the whole you can dare anything with 
him ; he is very good, and very forgiv- 
ing. I’ll wager that before long you 
will be his chief favorite ! You will out- 
strip me. Besides, he is not an ogre.” 

Victorine was still talking when they 
were interrupted by two slight knocks 
at the door. 

“Who can it be?” asked Jeanrie, 
sliding into bed with the supple gliding 
movement of a frightened snake hasten- 
ing to regain its shelter. 

Victorine opened the door. It was 
Pauline, the waiting maid, who came to 
know at what hour it would suit the 
young ladies to receive the dressmaker. 

“At twelve,” replied Victorine, who 


54 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


being at home was naturally the spokes- 
woman. 

“ Is not that rather late ?” asked 
Jeanne. “ What can we do till then V ’ 

“ True, my dainty lady ! I forgot 
that you have nothing to wear. You 
cannot go out with this rag/’ touching 
slightly and disdainfully, with the tip of 
her finger, the stiff dress worn out by too 
long use, and honorably whitened at the 
seams in more than one place. “Very 
well, let her come at ten.” 

At ten precisely, Mile. Hortense en- 
tered the hotel, followed by two boys 
carrying a mass of textures, which might 
serve to beguile all the daughters of Eve 
from fifteen to fifty. 

The ward of Mme. de Boutaric had 
never been exposed to such temptations. 
She was so confused at first that not 
being able to take all she dare not 
choose any. 

“ What do you wish ?” 

“ Goodness ! What am I to do with 
all that ?” 

“ You cannot take all, mademoiselle,” 
said the mantua-maker, with an insinu- 
ating manner; “but you must see all 
before deciding.” 

They opened the boxes, untied the 
bundles, and displayed the goods. There 
was everything — worsted and silks, stiff 
fabrics, and light tissues, all the fashions 
of the season ; things which shine forth 
in one day and disappear the next. 

“Are you in a hurry to take them 
away?” said Jeanne, in a tone which 
said, “ They are so pretty; let me look 
at them at my ease.” 

Mile. Hortense was not deceived; and, 
dissimulating on her side, replied in an 
indifferent way, “ Look as long as you 
please, mademoiselle ; that engages noth- 
ing” 

Vietorine, for her part, played, un- 
consciously perhaps, the pretty little 
rule of the tempter. 

“ It is very important that you dress 
well,” said she to her friend; “so that 
you may not be conspicuous. We intend 
to introduce you into a world which 
may be able to repair to you all the 
wrongs that fate has done. You must 
adopt the ways, customs, and dress of 
the world.” 

“ Yes, I ought to; but I cannot,” 
replied the orphan. 

Mile. Hortense, though listening in- 


tently, could not catch this sentence. 
Yet was she interested in watching the 
play of feeling in others, because she 
lived by those feeling, taking advantage 
of them if possible. She understood 
the meaning of the whispered sentence. 

From these indications, seized and 
applied with wonderful sagacity, she 
very nearly guessed the true situation 
of Jeanne, and said to herself that 
Jeanne’s beauty and youth deserved an 
unlimited credit ; and that whatever 
trust they should give her would never 
be misplaced. So she pictured before 
Jeanne the deceitful bait of credit, and 
placed all her goods at her disposal with 
a grace that was most truly taking. 

But the secret and correct instinct 
which distinguished Jeanne, made her 
see that this expedient, though it was 
so tempting, was very dangerous for 
her. 

“ I thank you, Mile. Hortense, but 
on principle I only buy what I can pay 
for.” And Jeanne, while speaking, 
looked into the pocket-book which en- 
closed all M. Gravis had saved for her. 

“ Mademoiselle will think of it,” repli- 
ed the persevering dressmaker. “ What 
I have said is true; I will always be 
most happy to fulfil mademoiselle’s or- 
ders.” 

The baroness entered to know their 
decision, and see if they needed advice. 

“ Mademoiselle wishes nothing !” said 
Mile. Hortense, addressing the baroness. 

“ I did not say that,” replied Jeanne, 
laughing; “ only I cannot accept all you 
offer me.” 

“ There is a middle course,” said 
Mme. de Blanchelande. “ Permit me 
to settle your little business. Let me 
commence with my daughter, and ar- 
range for her. You will make four 
dresses for her. She has grown a great 
deal since last year, and wears her things 
out terribly. Her last year’s dresses are 
only fit for her doll. Put on one side, 
for her, this — and that — also this tissue, 
and that one.” 

“ It is done, madame.” 

“Very well. As for you, my fair 
little one,” said Mme. de Blanchelande, 
turning to Jeanne, “you have no outfit. 
We must commence at the very begin- 
ning. It is indispensable for you to 
have a thorough toilet. You absolutely 
require it.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


55 


“ True ; mother is right,” said Jeanne, 
in a low tone, to her friend. 44 I need 
everything to start with, and the funds 
also, as M. Glavis would say. 4 ’ 

44 Let us choose carefully,” continued 
the baroness. 44 A black dress — you 
must have one always. A gray dress — 
it is always genteel. Two white, low- 
necked dresses, in case we should have 
a dinner-party and a ball the same day. 
They are fresh, charming, without pre- 
tension — so suitable for a young girl ! 
Let us add two colored walking-dresses, 
two morning-dresses, and a wrapper. 
You cannot do with less.” 

44 This is exactly what I told made- 
moiselle,” said Hortense, triumphantly. 

44 It must be so,” added Victorine, 
aiming to hurry up everything. 

Of course Jeanne could not resist all 
these authorities, so she acquiesced. 

The baroness chose the materials and 
fixed the prices. The dressmaker took 
her measure, and though she had too 
much tact to praise one woman before 
another, she still found means, by 
little admiring sentences, discreetly mur- 
mured to Jeanne’s ear, to let her see 
that she found her beautiful, and pre- 
dicted for her all the successes and tri- 
umphs of beauty. 

Jeanne, still modest, wished not to 
hear — yet listened. 

After the dressmaker, then came the 
milliner; then the shoemaker; then the 
linen draper. 

How can I tell ? Jeanne had nothing. 
She needed all. But all costs dearly ! 
Every moment she saw increase, with 
inconceivable rapidity, the sum total of 
her expenses. Sometimes she felt a 
certain fear; then again she was reas- 
sured, and dreamed only of the happy 
chances of the future. Then, as do all 
elegant natures, perfectly genteel and 
entirely feminine, she rejoiced in this 
studied elegance, this refinement of lux- 
ury, from which, until this moment, she 
had been completely debarred. 

The baroness hurried the trades-peo- 
ple, who redoubled their zeal. 

Mile. Derville’s toilet improvised itself 
as if by enchantment. She had a dress 
made for dinner the same day. 

It is only in Paris that we can accom- 
plish miracles. The hair-dresser came 
in the afternoon. Her rich hair, for so 
long a time compressed by the miserable 


hat, till it was like a cap, resumed, under 
these skilful hands, its naturally waving, 
luxuriant movement of glowing bright- 
ness. It was too long to be left in free 
curls, but was arranged in thick bands, 
waving naturally on the forehead, whilst 
the twists descended by their own weight 
below the neck. 44 False chignons” were 
unknown, unneeded, and would have 
been disdained by Jeanne for their bold 
deceitfulness. 

When Mile. Derville went down to 
dinner, all declared the transformation 
complete. Her statte now and in the 
morning, resembled a polished and un- 
polished diamond, when the fires sleep 
still in its veins, and when a skilled en- 
graver has caused it to sparkle by all the 
angles of his thousand facets. 

Neither the superintendent, nor the 
high dignitaries, nor the ladies of the 
two classes, nor the overseers, with their 
piercing eyes, could have recognised 
their timid and rather austere scholar, in 
this superb young creature, animated 
with the glowing breath of life, beaming 
with youth, and seeming made only to 
please, to dazzle, and to charm. 

Mile, de Blanchelande, frank and 
young, incapable of any sinister expres- 
sion, ignorant of the name of jealousy, 
felt a joy, unmixed with envy, at the 
charms of her friend, and rejoiced over 
the successes Jeanne could not fail to 
obtain, as if they were her own. 

44 She is more beautiful than Victo- 
rine,” thought the baroness ; and a se- 
cret uneasiness struck her heart, in the 
most vulnerable place, where God has 
placed maternal love. As for the baron, 
he paid Mile. Derville a polite compli- 
ment, (but in such an indifferent man- 
ner that it meant very little), on the 
good taste of her toilette, which he said 
neither astonished nor surprised him, as 
Mme. de Blanchelande had been kind 
enough to superintend it. These words 
gave satisfaction to all, and did not arouse 
distrust in any. 

The first few days passed without in- 
cident. The baron spent most of his 
time at his club, as men of his age and 
position are too apt to do ; dined rarely 
at home, and left the three women nearly 
always alone. 

Once or twice, however, he placed 
himself, in the most gallant manner, at 
the commands of those he laughingly 


56 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


called his two daughters. He took them 
to the Bois, now deserted by all the 
world - but Jeanne — still a little savage — 
found it none the less beautiful on that 
account. He then showed them, what 
the strangers’ guide complaisantly calls, 
“ the wonders of the Capital.” 

On all occasions, he shared his atten- 
tions equally between the two girls, 
paying no more to one than to the other ; 
charming* his daughter, who loved him 
devotedly, and gaining, gradually, the 
confidence of this timid beauty, Jeanne. 

The orphan found all this a charming, 
agreeable, and harmonious life. She 
felt at her ease in this friendly, benevo- 
lent atmosphere, and thanked Providence 
for this resting-place, between the trials 
of Saint Denis, and the other severe 
trials of life, from which her thoughts 
were seldom entirely turned. She felt 
it was not yet time to decide on her fu- 
ture, and she considered it a mark of 
respect to her hosts to keep silent on the 
subject. But this did not prevent her 
from constantly thinking. 

The following Sunday saw, gathered 
on the race-course, in the beautiful park 
of Maisons Lafitte, the elite of Paris, 
such as had not been led away by the 
fever of sea-bathing, German waters, or 
green gambling-tables. All those who 
had their country-places in the neigh- 
borhood, had come in to witness the 
solemnities of the race-course that a new 
fashion had caused them to patronize ; 
and, whose rarity in Paris life at such a 
time of year, added a new zest to them. 

All Paris was there ! so the reporters 
said — a presentable enough number ! 
But then, our two young school girls 
were not hard to please ; and there were 
there assembled, in a narrow spot, 
enough of luxury, elegance, and nota- 
bles from different countries. These 
lines of splendid carriages, these crowds 
of horsemen, touching their caps as they 
gallopped by on their blooded horses, 
and these innumerable promenades, in- 
creasing every moment, gave to these 
unsophisticated girls a brilliant idea of 
the world to which they had been so 
suddenly introduced. Nothing seemed 
needed to increase the brightness of this 
fete, of which the horses were the pre- 
text, much more than the real end. 

Paris had adopted the turf for some 
years as the arena for a rivalry of toilets, 


where female extravagance gives itself full 
liberty, where they no longer appear 
dressed, but costumed ; where the most 
fanciful is the most admired ; and they 
try to produce effect by the exaggeration 
of their disguises. Of this, the mas- 
querade contagion in broad day, and 
under the full light of the sun, had 
seized all the world with the thundering 
rapidity of Asiatic cholera. No person 
was spared. 

Women whose rank, name, position, 
family, and age, ought to have preserved 
them, yielded as the rest. Their head- 
dresses were guantlets — their mien bold ! 
One might say that the demi-monde had 
swallowed the other. But Mile. Derville 
did not even know what the demi-monde 
was, and she was astonished at a thou- 
sand things no one thought of explain- 
ing to her, they were so used to them. 

She saw superbly-dressed women, who 
were saluted with a smile, or with the 
hand. Others that they seemed not to 
know, although the winking of the eye 
she discerned as they passed, showed 
plainly enough they had many friends 
in the crowd. Jeanne was as pure as 
the last fallen snow on the highest peaks 
of the Alps, where no foot had ever trod. 
Never had the suspicion of evil glided 
into her soul ; but there was at this mo- 
ment something in her surroundings that 
vaguely disturbed her. 

This inquietude is, in itself, danger- 
ous, and to be avoided at all risks. We 
ought to preserve the young souls com- 
mitted to our charge from it, for it always 
detracts something from their heavenly 
purity, even though one who is destined 
to live in the world, with the world, and 
by the world, cannot forever escape its 
pernicious influence and deleterious cor- 
ruption. One can only delay the mo- 
ment of that great high trial, for it must 
always come — a necessary initiation, fixed 
by fate, and inevitable ! During the four 
days since Jeanne left Saint Denis, she 
had received more new ideas than during 
the long calm years she had lived within 
its walls. But these ideas were as yet 
confused and uncertain. All at once the 
light broke. 

M. de Blanchelande had conducted 
the ladies to the enclosed stand. There 
was no other place possible for one of 
his rank to go. But the rush for the 
place was so great, it occasioned such 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


57 


confusion, that all the groups became 
mixed. Jeanne and Victorine were sur- 
rounded by young men, gay friends of 
the baron, who, notwithstanding the dif- 
ference in their years, spoke to him with 
great freedom. Several knew Victorine ; 
and, in their manners, they did not show 
that deference that would have been 
found in their fathers, thirty years be- 
fore. As for Jeanne, she was a novelty, 
an enigma they were trying to solve. 
Her beauty was so original that it piqued 
them. She was unlike anything they 
had ever seen. In place of their mouths, 
which dared not speak, they employed 
their eyes, which spoke evil; and the 
pure young girl felt that such homage 
was not flattering, so devoid of delicacy 
and respect. She saw, or rather felt, 
something rude and bold in them, which 
shocked her. She was wounded, not 
flattered, by this ardent desire, eager, 
violent, intruding. She instinctively 
understood that a lady was entitled to a 
different attention. 

The races ended without accident or 
incident. They improved the horses 
without injuring the men; which is not 
always the case on these perilous trials, 
where millionaires, bearing the finest 
names in the heraldry of France, take 
the place of jockeys, and risk their necks 
twenty times, to be told they mount 
almost as well as Jack or James, Tom or 
Hick. 

Instead of returning to Paris, they 
went to dine at a neighboring villa, 
where the baroness (who had not yet 
taken the “ sportmania”) was to meet 
them. They found there a charming 
improvised sociable ; all the flowers they 
had seen blooming on the turf in the 
morning. Mme. Helisle, whom her 
friends, since she had become rich, called 
. Mme. de V Isle, was the mistress of an 
elegant mansion. It would be hard to 
find a handsomer one in the financial 
world to which her hus'band (now re- 
tired) had belonged for so long a time. 
Her soirees were considered of note 
in the whole “ Chaussee d’Antin,” 
where her splendid home was situated. 
She also received in her country-house, 
and her invitations were supremely se- 
lect. Still young, rich and pretty, Mme. 
de Tlsle loved to surround herself with 
young and handsome people. She did 
not endeavor, by contrast, to triumph 


too easily ; but, on the contrary, believed 
that nothing heightened beauty more 
than beauty itself; that the more a 
woman was charming, and able by her 
brightness, elegance and distinction to 
add to the charms and prestige of her 
soirees, the more considerate she would 
be of her own interest. A glance showed 
her that J eanne was a valuable recruit. 

She was equally kind to Mile. . de 
Blanchelande, whom she had known 
from childhood, but she showed a flat- 
tering preference for the orphan. Jeanne 
did not yet know enough of life to dis- 
tinguish clearly between appearances and 
sincerity; she accepted all that was 
offered, as they offered it. She was at 
the age when one believes dll they see, 
and did not try to look too deeply. She 
entered the world with an artless candor 
and a soul full of ignorance and of 
poetry, of freshness and of illusions. All 
seemed good and true to her. When 
one has never themselves deceived, how 
can they dream of doubting others. 
Used to the stern simplicity of the little 
convent of Saint Denis, Jeanne was 
dazzled by the magnificence of the table 
service, which was remarkable, even in 
Paris. She confessed to Victorine, who 
sat by her, that she did not know the 
names of the dishes they handed her. 

But she remembered too well the 
English cafe, not to be sternly on the 
guard in respect of the wines. During 
the whole repast she drank only water, 
slightly colored with wine, which caused 
the baron to smile. This was the only 
allusion that he ever made to the misad- 
ventures of the first evening. 

Some young people arrived, after din- 
ner, from the neighborhood and even 
from Paris. 

im I hope we can get up a little dan ce,” 
said Mme. de Flsle, to the young girls. 

“ Oh ! this is a regular take-in/’ said 
the baroness, interrupting; “you did 
not notify me, and they are dressed for 
the races; just look at their heads l” 

“ Allow me, then ! with such hair as 
that !” and she took a red rose from the 
table and twined it in the midst of the 
brown waving bandeau which coquet- 
tishly revealed Mile. Derville’s left ear. 
“ You are as pretty as an angel !” said 
she, kissing her neck, “and you will 
make so many conquests this evening, 
you will not know what to do with 


58 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOK. 


them and turning to Mile, de Blanche- 
lande, who she did not wish should feel 
neglected — 

“ It is your turn now, darling ! What 
say you to these corn-flowers ? Ah ! 
forsooth, as we have none of Constan- 
tine’s flowers, we are obliged to put 
up with those given us by the good 
God.” 

“ I am no harder to suit than your- 
self,” said Yietorine, lowering her head, 
whilst Mme. de l’lsle united the blue 
flowers to the blonde hair with both 
skill and taste. “Well, little ingrates,” 
continued she, looking at the two girls ; 
“ Confess that I am very good to thus 
arm you against myself ; for truly I am 
your natural enemy, since you are young 
and I am old ; and yet, I work with my 
own hands to make you handsome. This 
merits something from you — at least a 
little friendship — don’t you think so ?” 

“ I felt that already for you,” replied 
Jeanne, with a charming smile, “ but 
you must not make yourself out better 
than you are. You know perfectly well 
you have nothing to fear from us, nor 
from any one. You would be considered 
the most beautiful everywhere!” 

“ You flatter me, little serpent ! but you 
do it so sweetly that I must forgive you. 
Go on ! you cannot hinder me from 
loving youth — which is invaluable. But 
see, they come. I must go to the par- 
lor. You can stay here till the first 
waltz or quadrille. Just think, the gen- 
tlemen are still at their segars, when 
they could be in your company. Men 
have gone ! France is lost !” 

“ Is she not charming, Yietorine ?” 
said Jeanne, watching Mme. de l’lsle, 
as she advanced, with slow, majestic 
steps, to receive a mother accompanied 
by four daughters. “ I am mistaken by 
four partners /” 

“ All Mme. de l’lsle’s sweetness don’t 
amount to much,” replied Yietorine, 
rather maliciously. 

The three parlors were soon filled. 

Expectations of pleasure lightened 
the eyes of the young girls, and their 
little feet impatiently beat the time on 
the carpet. The men, unfortunately, 
were less enthusiastic, and turned a deaf 
ear to the first invitation waltz. It re- 
quired the reiterated summons of the 
mistress of the house, to draw them 
from the corners, where they seemed to 


have taken refuge; the younger appa- 
rently the most indifferent. Now-a-days 
one is blas4 at twenty ! It is true they 
regain, sometimes, their illusions at forty 
— when it is too late. 

Jeanne was destined to pass through 
a succession of surprises, to-day — from 
what she had heard from her school- 
mates who had cousins, she imagined 
men were always polite and attentive to 
women. What she saw the early part 
of this evening dispelled the illusion. 

The ice was broken by degrees, as 
they became animated. The musician 
was skilful. He could play some capti- 
vating strains. By eleven o’clock in the 
evening, everything was arranged. Pre- 
ferences showed themselves, sympathies 
arose, their choices were made. Each 
cavalier had his favorite partner. Socia- 
ble reunions permit what Goethe choicely 
calls the “elective affinities,” as he does 
us the “ attractive atoms” — doubtless 
because it is by “ atoms” we are caught. 
The German commenced at twelve, and 
generally lasted till four. It was led by 
a young officer, who was destined to run 
a brilliant career on the staff, and who 
began his conquests in the drawing- 
rooms. 

The German cotillion is a dance by 
itself. It includes all others. It gives 
the greatest license to fancy. In its 
complicated figures, the most artless 
debutantes usually pass for the most 
finished coquetes. They dance at Saint 
Denis — I will even say dance well there. 
Jeanne especially was noted for her 
lightness and grace. But they do not 
dance the German. More than once 
Jeanne was embarrassed, but partici- 
pants in a dance always repair grace- 
fully such mistakes. 

In this lively tournament of coquetry, 
where each lady contests, as in the open 
lists, the palm of elegance, of grace, and 
of beauty — where they offer the flower, 
or throw the handkerchief to the favorite 
— the debutante received all flattering 
homage. They made her queen of the 
ball ; and we know with what eager at- 
tention they are surrounded w’ho have 
received the “rosy crown” of this ephem- 
eral royalty. It is a point of honor 
never to leave her in her seat. They 
ran for her, from all corners, and she 
passed from one to the other, fluttering 
I lightly between their arms, with the 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


59 


happy smile of a first triumph. The 
glowing excitement lasted till the end 
of the ball. Jeanne returned to Paris 
giddy with pleasure. 

For the first time she had breathed 
the captivating incense of flattery and 
praise. By degrees, she had been led 
to hear many things, that the day before 
she would have believed impossible any 
one could have said to her. This was 
not all. They had commenced by touch- 
ing slightly her fingers to form the lines 
of the English chain ; and they had 
ended by pressing in their heated arms 
and to their agitated breasts, this virgi- 
nal, chaste figure, that had never known 
the touch of man. They spoke at first 
of her exquisite beauty, her enchanting 
grace, and her infinite personal charms, 
in a low tone — the eye finishing the dis- 
course, and expressing more than the 
words. 

We have never been accused of Puri- 
tanical exactness, and do not pretend 
that there was absolute evil in all this, 
in itself. Grod has not created beauty 
to be hid under a bushel ; and if he fills 
men with such lively admiration, it is 
not that they should conceal its expres- 
sion in the depths of their soul. But 
Jeanne had always lived, until now, far 
from this bold expression of passion, 
which, if not openly expressed, allowed 
itself to be understood. A few days 
away from her cloister had sufficed to 
throw her into a sphere of ideas and 
sentiments until then entirely unknown 
to her soul. She did not yield entirely 
to these feelings, or abandon herself un- 
reservedly to these ideas. Neither did 
she repel them; but gave herself up in 
some degree to the unknown sensation 
and fascination. One can say, without 
any exaggeration, that a very young girl 
does not leave a ball-room as she has en- 
tered it. 

She leaves there somewhat of her 
ideas of purity. The woi'ld insinuates 
itself into her and captivates her. She 
asks herself if the life she led until 
then was really life. She finds it singu- 
larly colorless and cold compared to the 
one she sees before her. 

They drove silently to Paris. Mme. 
de Blanchelande was annoyed at retir- 
ing so late that it was early ; Yictorine 
had a bad headache from dancing too 
much; the baron did not sleep. Seated 


opposite to Mile. Derville he tried, by 
the uncertain light of the lamps, to 
catch the expression of Jeanne’s face, 
which had engrossed him all the even- 
ing, though he had not spoken to her. 
Jeanne, with closed eyes, listened to the 
interior voices, repeating the sweet 
words that had been murmured into her 
ear. 

As young girls always do on return- 
ing from a ball, she reviewed her part- 
ners who had tried to make themselves 
agreeable to her. 

It is true, none of them had made a 
lasting impression on her mind ; they 
passed and repassed before her eyes as 
silhouettes half effaced. She distin- 
guished no one more than another, hap- 
pily for her, for she was, at this time, 
in such a state as to render over excite- 
ment dangerous. Jeanne had a lively 
imagination, its ardor nothing had yet 
diminished ; but, on the contrary, it in- 
creased and developed, thanks to the 
life she led until now. But this quick 
imagination delivered up her young soul 
without defence to the enticement of the 
world and of life. 

Imagination, when reason guides, 
when experience rectifies, is the most 
precious gift of heaven. It embellishes 
existence by coloring it. It clothes the 
slightest object with an illusion which 
idealizes them ; but its digressions are 
fatal. 

In youth unused to govern it is often 
an ally of the enemies who attack us. 
Imprudently we carry them in ourselves, 
and they open the citadel to our assail- 
ants. 

Jeanne Derville felt now the first 
symptoms of this vertigo of pleasure 
which few young girls have entirely es- 
caped on entering into society. She 
felt, so to speak, the paroxysm preceding 
a fever, which was to be as sudden as 
Violent. It was no longer the time to think 
of the future. The future, with its fated 
engrossments, and the terrible weight of 
her destiny now disappeared from her 
mind. The life she had led for some 
days, in a brilliant circle, rich and ele- 
gant, and for which all said she was 
made, seemed so sweet to her that she 
came to believe it was hers by birth and 
right. One might say, it was the life 
she ought always to lead. As to the 
means of continuing it, she did not ques- 


60 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


tion herself. Without even perceiving 
it she was precipitated in a rapid de- 
clivity. She rolled there like a stone 
towards an abyss. Life was a dream for 
her now. The awakening would be very 
hard, but the dream was sweet and the 
sleep deep. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

S UCH was our young heroine's con- 
dition of mind, when the baroness? 
who had made all her purchases and re- 
plenished her wardrobe, declared sud- 
denly, the day after the ball at Maison 
Lafitte, that no one was in Paris ; which 
was very true; and that staying any 
longer in the city was intolerable. 

But the baron, on his side, declared 
that there were workmen at the chateau, 
and it would not be ready to receive 
them for two weeks. What should 
they do for fifteen days, when the Au- 
gust sun burnt the trees in our walks, 
drank the last drops of water from the 
dried-up Seine, and made our sidewalks 
smoke ? Victorine remembered, very 
fitly, that her father had promised to 
take them up the Rhine ; and the 
colonel announced himself ready to do so. 

Jeanne clapped her hands, and pre- 
pared her album ; to see this old river, 
this poetic cradle of the most charming 
fables ; with its picturesque banks, 
covered with ruins, and with legends ; 
where the grape ripened, and where the 
song was created. This was to realize 
her most earnest wish. Victorine joined 
in the chorus, and her delight was as 
great. A word from the baroness put 
a check to their joy. Mme. de Blanche- 
lande was not well the evening before. 
We know that women always have at 
their disposal a malady and a doctor. 
The one brings the other. The doctor 
received the order to prescribe at least a 
dozen sea baths. This he did with the 
best grace in the world. The baron 
could but endorse as an irresponsible and 
docile minister. 

“Very good !” said he to his wife; 
“ as you wish ! When would you like 
to start ?” 

“ As soon as possible.” 

“ To-day, if you wish.” 

(i That is too soon ; but to-morrow.” 

“ Let us go to-morrow. But, if you 


please, may I know where we are going 
— to Dieppe, as we did last year, or to 
Boulogne, as the year before ?” 

“ Neither ; to Trouville.” 

“ Agreed ! for Trouville !” said this 
most complaisant husband. 

Trouville is certainly one of the most 
brilliant adjuncts of Paris. It is the 
adopted country of great luxury and of 
earthly elegance. A summer capital, 
where we meet on the seashore, those we 
have met before in the saloons. Mile. 
Derville did not know this. No one had 
even spoken about it at St. Denis ; she 
only knew that Trouville was in Norman- 
dy ; and her heart beat as she thought of 
the Rosery. Victorine, who knew better 
the geography of pleasure and the map 
of fashionable excursions, in a few 
words explained this to Jeanne. 

“ Trouville, my darling, is the most 
charming place in the world. The 
country and the sea, the sea and the 
country. Balls twice a week; and 
dressing four times a day.” 

“ Alas !” said Jeanne, with a sigh, “ I 
have only three dresses.” 

“ They can send them to you from 
here by the dozen.” 

“ And who will pay for them ?” 

u Nonsense ! there are yet plenty of 
bank-notes in the little green leather 
porte-monnaie. Are you really mean, 
Mile Derville?” 

“ Would to heaven that my means 
would permit it,” replied Jeanne, with 
a smile, under which you could see a 
little sadness. 

“ Do not think of it, then,” said Vic- 
torine, kissing her. “ When you have 
no more, my father will lend you some.” 

“ How can I repay him ?” 

“ That will be thy husband’s busi- 
ness.” 

“ Do you believe all poor, young girls 
find husbands willing to pay their 
debts?” 

“ All? No!— You? Yes !” * 

Jeanne shook her head with an incre- 
dulous air. Alas, however, in her happy 
moments, she flattered herself that she 
would end, sooner or later, by meeting 
that phoenix, that enchanted “ Prince 
Charmant,” of whom young girls dream, 
rich, beautiful, noble, brilliant, who 
comes and takes them by the hand, and 
leads them with him under the blue 
heavens, into the country where the 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


61 


lemon tree blooms, and where one has 
only to look in order to be happy. But, 
in truth, if this was an illusion, was not 
Jeanne, to a certain extent, excusable? 
Was there not in her everything to jus- 
tify her ideas ? 

The only time she had been brought 
into contact with young men, those among 
whom, after all, there are the chances 
to obtain husbands, had they not shown 
her the most eager attention ; had they 
not surrounded her with abundant hom- 
age to give her the right (she who did 
not know how rare the race of marrying- 
men has become) to conceive the most 
joyous hopes. 

It was in this state of mind, favored 
still by the high spirits and brightness 
of Victorine, that the former scholar of 
St. Denis descended from the railway- 
car on the shore of Trouville. 

The season was in all its brilliancy, 
in all its whirl, I would say in its climax 
of fever. 

This marine station, favored by the 
world of elegance and of fashion, the 
rendezvous of the aristocracy of all coun- 
tries, during the summer months, re- 
unites a flying squadron of those rich 
and idle women for whom any excuse is 
sufficient which will enable them to 
exhibit their eccentric appearances, their 
rash experiments, and their fantastic 
risks. They make, in truth, four toilets 
a-day, as Victorine had predicted. And 
what toilets ! 

Sometimes they wore long trains drag- 
ging an ell behind them, in order to 
sweep the pavements, which were too 
much neglected by the authorities of 
fhe place. Sometimes, on the contrary, 
the skirt was coquettishly raised, so as 
to display the limbs enclosed in little 
yellow boots. Then, again, the dresses 
opened in front, like a coat, and were 
cut into a long basque in the back, reach- 
ing below the waist. The head-dresses 
were of infinite variety, so‘ ingeniously 
arranged as to give to the most pure 
faces a shade of daring lasciviousness 
and audacious challenge. These were 
sometimes caps, with chevalier’s feath- 
ers, stabbing at the heavens, like a colo- 
nel’s plume ! Mousquetaire hats, of the 
style of Louis XIII., which allowed two 
feathers to float on the shoulders, one 
red, the other white ; or, perhaps, a plain 
cap, like a little boy’s, with a straight 


rim, giving to the most proper young 
lady a swaggering and tom-boy air, 
which delighted her — the unhappy one ! 

The first time that Jeanne saw from 
the terrace of the “ Salon” (the name 
which the Normans give to their Ca- 
sino), the brilliant crowd, fantastic and 
variegated, she thought it was a mas- 
querade, although it was not the exact 
time for the opera balls. If at this peril- 
ous entrance into life, she had been bet- 
ter guided, if she had only been left free 
to follow her own instincts and natural 
good taste, the daughter of the colonel 
would have appreciated this licentious- 
ness without curb, and this unbounded 
irregularity. But Victorine applauded; 
the baroness did not condemn ; and, be- 
sides, after all, the very willing victims 
of these ruinous eccentricities were noble 
ladies and virtuous young girls, belong- 
ing to good society, sometimes having 
the highest rank, name, position ; all, in 
fact, that was necessary to dazzle and 
lead others. When examples come from 
such high rank they are somewhat dan- 
gerous. I am mistaken — they are dan- 
gerous above everything ! The conta- 
gion is terrible and inevitable ! 

Victorine was attacked first by this 
plague, and so violently that she yielded 
immediately. For her, whose life was 
perfectly independent, and whose means 
were abundant, this was probably but a 
slight evil. Jeanne, on her part, was 
seized almost at the same time, and more 
violently, if possible, than her young 
friend. One easily persuades themselves 
that, at all costs, they should make up 
for too long continued abstinence ; or, 
to express ourselves better, she was car- 
ried away so naturally, by the attrac- 
tions of the world, that one could really 
believe, until now she had been wise 
only because she had no occasion to be 
otherwise. 

These few weeks at Trouville, in the 
midst of this overwhelming fascination, 
finished the fatal transformation so ra- 
pidly commenced in Paris. Jeanne 
came away another being. No one 
would have been surprised more than 
herself at this metamorphosis, had she 
had the time to observe it. But, gra- 
cious ! where can one find the time when 
they make four toilets a day? All one 
can do is to dress and to undress ! 
Hardly, in the intervals, can the most 


' CN 


62 THE PUPIL OF THE 

diligent chat a little. Only one thing 
could have retarded Mile. Derville in 
the declivity she was descending ; that 
would have been the sensible, devoted 
affection of a friend, older and more ex- 
perienced than herself. But this affec- 
tionate control was absolutely wanting — 
as she wanted, alas ! almost everything. 
She was one of those whose childhood 
has endured the most irreparable of all 
evils — the loss of their father and 
mother. 

An unlooked-for accident had placed 
Jeanne, when she left the institution, in 
the heart of an agreeable family; rich, 
in good society, and, on the whole, rather 
good than bad; yet, who needed, most 
certainly, good sense and judgment. 
How could they do for others, what they 
could not even do for themselves ? 

M. de Blanchelande, a man as gay as 
he ever was, and whose middle age had 
only one care — a repining for his youth 
— could not dream of warning his daugh- 
ter’s friend against a danger to which 
he would willingly have pushed her him- 
self. Certain defects became a charm 
in his eyes. The baroness was still too 
much taken up with herself to suspect 
others, and besides, for a long time she 
had seen only through her daughter’s 
eyes. What she did was all right ; and 
it never entered her mind that any one 
could think it evil. 

It is thus that poor Jeanne rashly 
staked her life on a foolish throw — 
which, if she lost, did not even leave 
her the chance of a recovery. But no 
one dreamt of this, neither she nor 
those around her. 

She was, for the first time, launched 
into the midst of a world whose existence 
had no aim ; where all hold from day to 
day, letting things go as they would, 
not one voice being raised to recall her 
feelings to the stern realities that awaited 
her. 

The balls in the saloon, the concerts 
on the beach, the horseback rides, the 
walks, the drives through this enchant- 
ing country, so adorably beautiful, the 
sociable soirees, where all were intimate, 
followed each other with unfailing ra- 
pidity. The two friends passed from 
one fdte to another, and their days were 
a round of pleasures. Since she had 
left Saint Denis, Jeanne, who before, 
would have said as the old Boman : “I 


LEGION OF HONOR. 

have never passed a day of my life with- 
out learning something” — this Jeanne 
had not opened a book ! and we must 
confess, although this avowal injures 
our heroine, that she accommodated her- 
self perfectly to this idleness. It is 
easier to lose than to gain the habit of 
industry. She lived in the world, and 
for the world, as if she had done so all 
her life. She felt at her ease, and in 
her natural element, in the very bosom 
of this atmosphere of never-ending co- 
quetry where they had plunged her. 
Adulation and devotion were now neces- 
sary to her; and if they had not come 
of themselves, before, she would have 
missed something ! 

She and Yictorine were the queens 
of the evening balls, and like all queens, 
were surrounded by courtiers and flat- 
terers. 

The world sometimes shows instincts 
of marvellous sagacity. Although these 
two young girls were always accompanied 
by a gentleman of the best society, and 
by a lady who was the mother of one 
of them, and of whom no one had ever 
spoken lightly, they guessed they were 
not sufficiently guarded and protected. 

All the class of adventurers who fre- 
quent watering-places, followed them 
with an eagerness of which they would 
not have been proud, if they had under- 
stood the motive. 

There are always, in such assemblies, 
one or two lions, as they like to be 
called, who draw the attention and the 
devotion of all available cavaliers. I do 
not wish to push too far for the analysis 
of masculine sentiments, nor to pretend 
that this fact alone roused such lively 
contention for the privilege of dancing 
two waltzes or three polkas with such or 
such a young lady. One allows himself 
to form venturesome opinions and rash 
judgments. I only say, that generally 
these beautiful mundane constellations, 
who form the ornament and brightness 
of our charming summer f^tes, disappear 
some evening by unknown ways, and 
are lost in infinite loneliness, far from 
the blessed heavens where shine the 
stars which preside over the marriage 
service. 

But neither Jeanne nor Victorine 
could contemplate such a dark future. 

Both just entering life, both in the 
spring time of their youth, in the bloom 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEOTON OF HONOR. 


63 


of their beauty, in the glory of their 
triumphs. How could they dream of 
a sad future ? “ The grasshopper chirps 
all summer,” she does not cry hun- 
ger before the north wind arrives ; and 
the two scholars from St. Denis were 
yet in the May month of their life, 
where they felt only soft winds full of 
sweet murmurs and gentle caresses. 

In this loving and agreeable tempera- 
ture, in which the young girls developed 
as plants forced by heat. No serious or 
grave thought could be raised, and no- 
thing came to snatch them from this 
whirlwind of intoxicating pleasures, by 
which they had both been carried off. 
They were proclaimed the two queens 
of this brilliant season by unanimous 
acclaim of the electors of twenty-five 
years. They soon engrossed all the ad- 
mirers, who followed them on the shore, 
waited on them in the saloon, and con- 
tended for their words, their looks, their 
smiles. As they both had success 
enough, and as each received equal at- 
tention, there had not been a shadow of 
rivalry between them ; and jealousy, 
that destroying worm of female friend- 
ship, found no hole to glide into their 
mutual affections. Nothing troubled the 
joyousness of their days most truly 
woven with threads of gold. Why 
would not such a life endure for ever ? 


CHAPTER XV. 

T HE baron, meanwhile, received a 
letter from his steward saying, that 
the workmen hacl finished at the Chateau 
de Blanchelande, and that the noble 
house was now ready to receive them. 

This news reached Trouville the 
night before a grand ball, which had 
been talked of for some time, and for 
which one and all had made prepara- 
tions for attack and defence, and were 
arranged for assault of luxury, of ele- 
gance, and of coquettery. 

The young girls prayed M. de Blanche- 
lande, who was not naturally inflexible, 
to give them this one evening more. He 
consented. Mariette, the waiting-maid, 
used all her powers to heighten their 
grace and natural charms. She suc- 
ceeded in making them two little won- 
ders. Their entrance into the soloon 
was hailed as a great event. The news 
5 


of their departure had spread abroad, 
and threw on the pleasures a slight veil 
of melancholy. It might have been 
called the Fete of Farewells. 

Their admirers who had been the 
most devoted to them for the last two 
weeks, pressed their fingers on leading 
them to their places, or raised their eyes 
to heaven, according as they were of an 
audacious character, or of sentimental 
humor. 

“ I believe I have made four con- 
quests,” said Yictorine to her friend, as 
she left her at her room door. “And 
you?” 

“Ah, me ! I believe it is a fact that I 
have as many, thank you,” replied 
Jeanne, laughing. “ But we are going 
away ; the world is large. Who can* tell 
if we will ever meet them again ! The 
little vicomte is very agreeable, however, 
and the young baron had the prettiest 
moustache you have ever seen. You 
will not find such again. Oh, it is a 
shame we are going away !” 

“ They will know where to find us if 
they really love us.” 

“ Yes, that is so.” 

“And if they do not love us it is no 
great loss.” 

“ That is just what I said to myself.” 

“Among them all has any one offered 
himself?” 

“ I believe that two or three had a 
great mind to do so.” 

“ Only the mind ! Then we have lost 
our time.” 

“ Do not fear, however, we will soon 
reach Blanchelande.” 

“ Where we will see them no more.” 

“ Where we will see plenty of others. 
Grood-night !” 

“ Do not dream of the little vicomte !” 

“ Do not weep for the young baron !” 

The next day a train on the branch 
of the western railroad, recently estab- 
lished, which passed along the rich 
banks of la Toucques, and plunged into 
the valley of Auge, carried our beauti- 
ful friends from Trouville, made them 
skim over the green fields of Caen, and 
conducted them across the forests of 
TOrne to Mans, from whence they 
reached Orleans. 

The baron’s carriages met them there, 
and took them through a route bordered 
with laughing fields; amidst which, in 
all directions, they saw beautiful houses 


64 


TIIE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


and aristocratic residences, half hidden 
by the shadows of the large parks which 
led them to Chateauneufi There they 
crossed the Loire, to gain by a gentle 
slope the first table-land of the Sologne. 

M. de Blanchelande’s estate was two 
leagues from the river, situated among 
grand and romantic scenery, from which 
it received its name. 

It was a remarkable place, of vast ex- 
tent. A country, in the midst of which 
were large bare places, where you could 
see only the bright and sterile whiteness 
of sand. 

Here and there, in the sides of the 
hills, long trails of heath floated on the 
wind or glistened in the sunlight with a 
brightness as glorious as that of the 
snow on the top of the eternal glaciers. 
As far as the eye could reach was a bar- 
rier of white rocks, which the vision 
could not penetrate. This too great 
uniformity one soon became accustomed 
'to, and ended by loving. These heaths, 
mounting high under the evening or 
morning breeze, were perhaps connected 
with the moving tableaux of waves 
breaking on the strand, opposite the 
Rosery, at the foot of Mount Saint 
Michel. This was the first impression 
<of Jeanne T)erville, when she saw them. 

Here all comparison ended ; for, in- 
stead of the evident fertility of Nor- 
iinandy, instead of those grand and 
beautiful pictures of fruitfulness, amidst 
'which the daughter of the colonel had 
been reared, she found at Blanchelande 
mature, wild, uncultivated, stern. On 
the hills around the chateau was a belt 
of scrubby trees, which had neither the 
moble aspect nor the serene majesty of 
the chestnuts, of the oaks, nor of the 
• century elms, which strew their shadows 
on the valley of Avranches; but the! 
-spruce, with their eternal greenness, 
and their dark pyramids; the juniper 
tree, with their cones of a lighter shade ; 
Hhe spice tree, almost black, and the 
laryx, almost white, gave to the land- 
scape a poetic shade of melancholy. 
They gave out, morning and evening, 
an odor slightly unpleasant, but healthy 
and invigorating. 

It seemed as if the soul, as well as 
the body, would be better here. 

For those troubled beings who have 
lived too fast — that the world often 
makes — this would be a healthy resi- 


dence, bringing to their entire organiza- 
tions fresh and soothing influences. The 
impulses of passion give place to calm 
counsel, which seems to speak louder 
here than elsewhere. One could not 
have chosen a better earthly retreat 
after a season of prolonged balls. Our 
heroine, coming out of the dissipations 
of Trouville, would regain herself in the 
wastes of a salutary solitude. 

The chateau had been the work of 
several centuries, and though showing 
an assemblage of strange detail, was, on 
the whole, rather imposing. La Ren- 
aissance, with her lavish hands, had left 
in this part of France many proofs of 
her passage, and had stamped, with her 
aristocratic elegance, certain portions 
of this imposing edifice. More ancient 
parts bore the marks of the dark ages 
on the stones, and others, more recent, 
served only the purposes of practical 
utility, and declared, by their disdain 
of the picturesque, that they were the 
work of the present era. 

Our travellers arrived at night, as if 
the baron had purposely selected the 
most favorable time for the young friend 
of his daughter to be struck by the first 
sight of this unexpected novelty. 

It was a splendid night, slightly cold, 
as it always feels on reaching high table 
land, but filled with brightness and au- 
roral rays. The stars were twinkling by 
millions in the deep blue of the heavens. 

The carriage had driven for half an 
hour on a road through the woods. From 
time to time an owl flew from one tree 
to another, flapping in the air her wings 
mute and downy, whilst the plaintive cry 
of a curlew coming from the distant sea 
and reaching the bogs, alone interrupted 
,tjje silence of nature. A long, irregular 
pyenue, passing through a wood of birch 
Whose trunks, glistening and shining like 
silver, resembled ghosts clothed in white 
shrouds, led up to the chateau. 

Here aud there, judicious openings in 
the trees allowed a glance on the vast 
brightness above, of which some grand 
spruce tree formed the natural centre. 

The baroness, fatigued by her long 
journey, had fallen into a sweet slumber. 
Victorine, familiar with this spectacle, 
so beautiful and romantic, and slightly 
tired of it, slept like her mother. 
Jeanne, of a nervous temperament, 
alive to all feeling, and easily excited, 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


65 


had not eyes enough to admire all that 
presented itself before her. Softly, for 
fear of awakening her companions, she 
lowered the glass of the carriage and 
breathed the invigorating perfumes which 
were thrown out from these woods at 
night. A ray from the moon struck her 
face at this moment, making resplendent 
the marble whiteness of her forehead, 
the proud and noble outline, and the 
line, delicate temples. Thus seen under 
this veiled light, bluish and fantastic, 
she was indeed charming — and no one 
saw her ! 

I am mistaken. Two eyes were fixed 
on her face with magnetic tenacity, 
which, they say, ends by conquering 
more feeble wills, and so forces them to 
yield to a higher power. But, before 
this mysterious and indisputable influ- 
ence had time to work on Mile. Derville, 
who did not seem in the least to yield 
to it, the carriage stopped, and the two 
sleepers awoke at the same time. 

“ We are here!” cried Yictorine, clap- 
ping her hands. 

“ So much the better,” replied the 
baroness, who had found the life they 
had led the last few days very tedious. 

All the doors of the house were 
opened. A crowd of servants carrying 
lights surrounded the carriage, lowered 
both steps at the same time, and all got 
out. 

“ Behold thee at our home,” said Yic- 
torine to her friend, whilst they un- 
packed the boxes: She took her by the 
arm, and made her walk on the grass all 
wet with dew to the exact spot where 
she could get the most favorable view 
of the chateau. 

Lighted by the moon, which, better 
than all the painters in the world, seejpas 
to understand artistic decoration &rtd 
picturesque effect, the grandeurs of 
the manor defined itself darkly on the 
bright night, with an appearance of 
majesty which struck Mile. Derville. 

“ Oh, how splendid it is !” said she, 
pressing Mile, de Blanchelande’s hand. 

“Will you be able to live here?” 
asked Victorine. 

“ With thee I could live anywhere.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

J EANNE opened her window at an 
early hour the next morning, to 
breathe the sweet, fresh air. 

Her room looked on that part of the 
park where the largest sheet of water 
was situated — Blanchelande was noted 
for these beautiful waters. Frothy 
springs, hidden in the deep woods, they 
expanded into a thousand little silver 
rivulets, descending from rock to rock, 
and leaping in irregular cascades, then 
running over pebbles between mossy 
banks of cresses and fontinales, feeding 
that little oval lake which Jeanne saw 
under her windows. 

On its tranquil bosom floated slowly 
two black swans, in the midst of a flock 
of teals and ducks, in color of the emer- 
ald and the sapphire ; some water rails 
and mud hens, with their brown, glossy 
feathers resembling black birds, built 
their nests on the borders, between the 
sea rushes ; whilst a kingfisher, darting 
from the midst of the reed grass, by its 
piercing cry drew attention to its rapid 
flight and shining wings. 

Jeanne looked a long while at this 
romantic scenery — she did not close the 
window till she felt she was catching 
cold. 

“ Surely,” said she, “ one can live 
happily here.” 

The whole day was employed in set- 
tling themselves. The next Mile. Der- 
ville felt as much at home as if she had 
been born at Blanchelande, and lived 
there all her life. 

It was a different life from that at 
Trouville, and it was a better one. 

It was a country life, healthful, natu- 
ral, copious, fertile, slightly vegetative. 
A life Jeanne had never known • but 
one that was better for her than any 
other after the long, work and severe 
discipline of Saint Denis. 

They scoured the country, and the 
country was beautiful. There was 
always something new for Jeanne to see, 
and for Yictorine to see again. 

Sometimes Mme. de Blanchelande 
desired to go with them, then they drove. 
But generally she stayed at home, and 
they went on horseback — a pleasant ex- 
ercise that they both loved passionately, 
as most ladies do. 

The baron was an admirable horse- 
man, and he became their instructor, 


66 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


and taught them both the accomplish- 
ment with equal care. Excepting, be- 
cause he saw Jeanne was far less ad- 
vanced than his daughter, he offered to 
give her some private lessons. Yictorine 
resolutely opposed this, pretending that 
she would not allow her friend to take 
away the only advantage she possessed 
over her. 

M. de Blanchelande’s good nature had 
caught him, and he was in for it ; so he 
continued to be their chevalier, serving 
equally his daughter and his daughter’s 
friend. Thus passed nearly a month, 
peaceably and without the least incident. 

Living in the sun and open air, they 
lived, or allowed themselves to live, 
without care or thought. No one spoke 
to the orphan of her future, and she 
herself gave no heed to it — so preca- 
rious, however, and so uncertain for her. 
The life she led was sweet and good ; 
would it not last for ever, just like this 
friendship ? 

Suddenly, the noble manor assumed a 
new and unknown animation; they went 
and came from top to the bottom of the 
house ; they opened chambers until now 
closed up ; the major-domo assumed im- 
portant airs ; in a word, everything an- 
nounced the expectation and approach 
of a great event. 

“ Do you expect to receive the Pope? 
or the Emperor ?” asked Jeanne, one 
evening. 

“Not that lam aware of; but the 
time has come when we visit from cha- 
teau to chateau. In this country we 
visit each other’s houses a good deal. 
My father, like the fiery Nimrod, is a 
great hunter ! We shall have some 
grand hunts in the woods. Fanfare, the 
whipper-in, sounds a horn, as the Pala- 
din Roland. You will see how we 
amuse ourselves!” 

“ And is this all?” said Mile. Der- 
ville, piercing with her clear look the 
eyes of her friend. 

“ This is all,” said Yictorine, with 
apparent simplicity; “and I find it 
enough. What more do you want ?” 

“ Nothing, indeed ! it is enough.” 

Nevertheless, the baroness took par- 
ticular interest in her daughter’s toilet. 
Two cases of dresses arrived from Paris ; 
and the dressmaker, who had the easy 
task of adorning this charming person, 
sent three hats of the latest fashion ; one 


of them, with its brim coquettishly 
raised, was named “ a love,” by Mile. 
Marietta, the waiting-maid. As for 
Jeanne, they considered hers fresh 
enough, or else they did not wish to force 
her to make a new sacrifice ; they also had 
the discretion not to mention in her pre- 
sence anything about having ordered the 
things at all. 

The guests were expected in series, 
positively; as at Compiegne, or at Fon- 
tainebleau. 

The first series did not delay their ap- 
pearance. It was composed exclusively 
of the rich proprietors, accompanied by 
their wives and their children, to whom 
were added some high dignitaries from 
the adjoining villages. 

Jeanne did not require much pene- 
tration to perceive the immense distance 
which separates the world of the Pro- 
vinces from the world of Paris. Every- 
where until now, they had treated her 
on an equal footing with Yictorine ; 
they had noticed she was young, beauti- 
ful, graceful and well-educated. This 
was enough, no one dreamed of asking 
more ; and all the world judged her 
equal to figure in a quadrille with a 
duchess. But the Provinces require 
more ! They are never in favor of the 
suppression of passports. They take too 
good care to assure themselves that you 
are all right. They wish to know your 
business , and your connections ; what you 
are ; where you come from ; where you are 
going to ; what you possess — and this last 
question is not the least important one. 

Our inquisitors, whom nothing escaped, 
soon knew that although Jeanne be- 
longed to a good family, she was entirely 
destitute of fortune and would be obliged 
to support herself by using the educa- 
tion given her by charity. 

“ The Blanchelandes will not always 
keep her,” said, disdainfully, with scorn- 
ful lips, the mother of two great big 
stupid daughters she had found hard to 
get rid of; “it seems this princess will 
be reduced, after vacation, to the posi- 
tion of under mistress in a boarding- 
school, or a companion or reader to some 
great lady ; unless she prefers to run 
about giving private lessons in Freuch 
— a very agreeable situation, truly !” 

From this moment Jeanne was judged, 
sentenced, executed; and a line of de- 
marcation — at first almost imperceptible, 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


67 


but more definite from day to day — was 
drawn between her and the guests of the 
chateau. Women (whose rivalry nothing 
can disarm), were particularly hostile to 
her, and they knew how to manifest it 
in a thousand little things. A coterie , 
spiteful, mean, very persevering in these 
wretched assaults, tormented her inch 
by inch, and although it was all intan- 
gible, it was very painful. The daugh- 
ter of the colonel had never endured any 
suffering of this character; it was the 
first time that she had felt the thorn 
under the rose. She felt that life was 
less desirable. 

Let us assert that the family whose 
hospitality Jeanne had received, did not 
enter into these sad plots. I do not 
doubt but they would have foiled them, 
if they had noticed what was going on ; 
one could only reproach them with not 
taking care enough. 

Victorine was entirely devoted to her 
friend, and the little insinuations, more 
or less charitable, they made near her, 
were absolutely lost. 

Mile. Derville saw all this, and her; 
friend’s constancy was a great comfort 
amidst her annoyances. But women are 
so ingenious in causing another woman 
to suffer, that Victorine could not al- 
ways furnish the remedy for these ills. 
There were, besides, many things she 
did not notice; she was also much en- 
gaged with household duties, which she 
shared with her mother. When she had 
embraced Jeanne, saying: “Thou art 
charming, and I truly love thee, dar- 
ling,^ she imagined this was enough, 
and her thoughts turned to other things. 

The young men, carried away by the 
grace and beauty of Mile. Derville, re- 
mained uninfluenced by their mothers, 
sisters, or even cousins, and devoted 
themselves to her with gre$t ardor. 

But Mile. Derville was more annoyed 
than pleased by these devotions, which 
seemed now only an importunity. 

“ All this because I am poor,” said 
the orphan, with secretly bitter feelings, 
which amounted almost to agony, at 
times ; she now first tasted the world as 
it really is, this world of which she knew 
so little ! she caught a glimpse of real 
life, and her thoughts turned towards 
Saint Denis with mingled sadness and 
regret. At Saint Denis, notwithstanding 
the weariness of such a long seclusion, 


she had enjoyed to the highest extent, 
the pleasures of friendship and the tri- 
umphs of self-love. 

There at least, they did not ask what 
she had , but what she was ; and as she 
was the most intelligent, the most indus- 
trious there, her place was in the first 
rank, and no one dreamt of disputing 
her right. 

When some of the mistresses, who. 
were taught by experience the true state 
of social life, and who foresaw the un- 
happiness her natural ambition would 
bring upon her, which was so little in 
accordance with the necessities of her 
position, tried to forewarn her of the 
dangers and trials of the future, she 
accused them of ignorance or exaggera- 
tion. 

When one has not been thrown much 
on the world, and has lived in a narrow 
circle, they see things from only one 
point of view. Jeanne was still the 
scholar of Saint Denis ! she looked wil- 
lingly enough upon life as a succession 
of competitions, each one more arduous 
than the next, and becoming more and 
more difficult, but where the most desira- 
ble prizes were always decreed to the most 
worthy, and these difficulties with which 
her young life had constantly contended 
had been unable to daunt her courage 
or her energy. I know no idea more 
false than this. 

The poor child, ignorant that to gain 
prizes in the world, merit is judged only 
by rank or possessions. Too often, those 
who have nothing count for nothing. 
Observe what the guardians of our 
childhood ought to warn us against, the 
deceptions of the future. But if they 
did so, they feel they would lose their 
influence and discourage our efforts. All 
have to endure this awakening, its risks 
and perils ; for some dispositions the 
trial is hard and very painful ; Jeanne 
was one of these. 

She suffered then, and suffered much. 
But her true dignity caused her to hide 
all this, and she showed a calm, serene 
brow to all around. On close examina- 
tion they gould see she was rather cold 
and repelling. She often declined join- 
ing the gay parties organized at the cha- 
teau, and often after dinner, instead of 
remaining in the parlor to play or dance, 
she would plead indisposition and retire 
to her chamber. 


68 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ Do you not think,” said the baroness, 
with an unpleasantly jesting manner, 
“ that this little Jeanne has become sud- 
denly very peculiar ?” 

“Want of early education,” replied 
some charitable neighbor; and forgetting 
her, they then talked of other things. 

About midnight, as Yictorine was re- 
tiring, she knocked at Mile. Derville’s 
door, and found her reading. 

“ I am delighted,” said she, with 
slight maliciousness, “to -find your head- 
ache did not last long. What tincture 
of lime water do you take ?” added she, 
turning the leaves of the serious book 
in which her young friend had been so 
feverishly immersed. 

“• Pleasures are your life — work will 
be mine,” replied Jeanne. “Let us 
each follow our destiny.” 

“ Your destiny will be what you de- 
desire. But listen to me. You must 
not read any more. You will spoil your 
beautiful eyes.” 

A't other times, Jeanne, on the con- 
trary, would stay in the parlor; and as 
if she wished to pique the men by her 
indifference, and humiliate the women 
by showing it was only necessary for her 
to appear to bring all their adorers to 
her feet, she would seat herself at the 
piano, and play polka after polka, waltz, 
and quadrille, with a spirit, ardor, and 
forced gaiety which duped every one. 

“ What talent !” said a young, enthu- 
siastic man. 

“ She is fortunate in having talent,” 
was the reply of a young girl. 

“ Yes, indeed,” continued the mother, 
“ for this may enable her to gain her 
bread.” 

Meanwhile, Jeanne remained at the 
piano, as if she were a poor artiste, hired 
for the evening at ten francs. When 
they were not dancing, she skimmed the 
notes of ivory and ebony lightly with 
the tips of her fingers, and they seemed 
to reply to her and talk with her. Some- 
times, taking her hands from the key- 
board, she thoughtlessly raised her 
sleeves, thus displaying her beautiful 
white arms. Then again, throwing back 
her neck, she leaned her pale and noble 
head against the dark oak panel. She 
would lower her eyes, and the shadows 
of the beautiful lashes moved slowly on 
her cheeks, whilst she thus remained 


engrossed in her own thoughts, gathered 
into herself. 

At these times she was certainly very 
beautiful, and even a superficial observer 
could discern the treasures of the mind, 
and of restrained passion. At these mo- 
ments, more than one heart was dis- 
turbed. 

It is a fact that anywhere but in this 
crushing atmosphere of the provinces, 
the storms surrounding her would cer- 
tainly have burst; but in the provinces 
the passions do not kindle into open war, 
because each one schools himself, and 
observes for himself whilst restraining 
and observing others. 

It is there — mutual compression ! 


CHAPTER XVII. 

I N the meantime, M. de Blanchelande, 
still young, notwithstanding his great 
big daughter, younger still in character, 
though married for twenty years, had 
not been able to live for so long in the 
society of this beautiful and charming 
creature, congenial to him from the 
first, without becoming more and more 
interested. The difference in their ages, 
and her perfectly pure nature, had until 
now prevented Jeanne Derville from 
having the slightest suspicion of this 
growing passion, which was hidden in 
darkness and enveloped in mystery,, 
For a young girl, reared with the prin- 
ciple of pure, noble morality, the idea 
of love is absolutely inseparable from the 
idea of marriage. She could not con- 
ceive the possibility of one asking for 
her love who could not demand her 
hand in marriage. The baron, on his 
side, was surrounded by too many chains, 
watched by too many eyes, to risk the 
slightest imprudent step. He was too 
good a judge of situations, and had too 
fine an appreciation of character, not to 
understand the spirit of his daughter’s 
friend, and to feel certain that she would 
not listen to him now. He was there- 
fore forced to respect and love, by this 
proud,* loyal young girl. He could do 
but one thing — wait ! But he was at 
that time of life when to wait is cruel, 
and to be patient is difficult. 

Patience is only possible for those who 
have time and hope. M. de Blanche- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


69 


lande was troubled in restraining him- 
self. Jeanne’s conquests — although she 
disdained them, — the effect she produced 
on all the men so much younger than 
himself, did not precisely aid him in 
this self-conflict. These kind of battles 
are the most cruel of all. 

One thing alone rendered calmness 
more easy. It was the coldness and 
complete indifference Mile. Derville 
showed to all. He frankly acknow- 
ledged to himself that he could not have 
endured a rivalry, in which the advan- 
tages would have been entirely on the 
other side. 

As to these little cavils that had been 
raised against Jeanne, he began to no- 
tice them, and felt much irritated; but 
he did not allow his anger to transpire, 
for it would have gratuitously compro- 
mised him with his wife. To hold J eanne 
up to-day would have risked losing her 
, to-morrow. He contented himself in 
surrounding her- with delicate and 
thoughtful attentions. We ought to 
say that Jeanne showed him only an 
absent-minded gratitude. The grand 
question of the future (forgotten for 
a moment), presented itself to her 
mind, that sorrow had now rendered 
more serious, and surrounded with all 
the frightful problems that she inexora- 
bly throws on an orphan without for- 
tune. Her confidence in others being 
shaken, she felt she could not rely on 
them, and this view was not consoling. 
It was not the moment when she could 
notice the antiquated gallantries of the 
baron. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

DE BLANCHELANDE ar- 
• ranged a hunt about the’middle 
of September, which was to be the event 
of the season. He loved these runs , 
which were real triumphs for him ; for 
he there displayed, under the eyes of 
all, his most brilliant qualities of cava- 
lier and of hunter; he vowed, moreover, 
that this day he would surpass even him- 
self. The keepers came beforehand to 
perfect all the arrangements. They had 
turned out a superb deer — he was en- 
circled in a thick wood, the start from 
which would lead them at once into an 
open country, usually magnificent. The 
crops were cut, and nearly everywhere 


gathered — the route was free and open, 
and they hoped for an unexceptional 
run. All looked favorable, and the 
baron flattered himself Jeanne would be 
conquered by the view of his exploits. 

He was therefore terribly disappointed 
when, on the morning of the start, Mile. 
Derville announced her intention of re- 
maining at home. 

“ Oh, you are not in earnest ! Every 
one is going !” 

“ Allow me then to differ from the 
rest.” 

“ But it is for you I have arranged 
this little party.” 

“ I am very grateful, though I cannot 
quite credit this.” 

“ How dare you say you do not believe 
me, when you know all I do is for you — 
you little flirt ?” 

“Ia flirt ? You know perfectly well 
that I am not.” 

“ That is true ! You are only an in- 
grate.” 

“ Ah ! how am I ungrateful — will 
you be kind enough to state ?” replied 
she, with some dignity. 

“ Behold ! I am wrong ! You are' 
neither ungrateful nor a flirt. There ! 
are you now satisfied, you wicked one ? 
But it is a fact, I was up this morning 
before day; I gallopped your favorite 
mare Florine for an hour, that she might 
be safe for the start and docile through 
the chase, and now you will not come. 
Oh, mademoiselle, this is too bad !” 

Jeanne shook her head. 

“ Go quickly to your room, and put 
on that becoming little hat and your 
riding habit.” 

“ I ought rather to put on my travel- 
ling dress.” 

“ The travelling dress ! And why so, 
in the name of goodness ?” ' . 

“ To go away.” 

“You to go away ! You are out of 
sorts this morning, my beautiful Jeanne. 
You go away, indeed ! you cannot dream 
of such a thing.” 

“ Indeed I do dream, just of that.” 

“ You really wish to leave Blanche- 
lande ?” 

“ Did you think I could spend the 
rest of my life here ?” 

“Why not?” 

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders, and 
gazed out of the window. 

“ Let all this alone. Be kind,” con- 



70 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


tinued the baron, taking her hand ; 
“and do not give me pain who have 
never given you any. Come to this 
hunt — I beg for it.” 

“ Still, no !” replied Mile. Derville, 
with more firmness than M. de Blanch e- 
lande had ever known ; “ I must renounce 
all, at once, bravely, without looking 
back at this life not made for me. I 
must regain the habit of work, which 
you have caused me to relinquish, and 
which I should never have lost. 

“ I myself am not born,” continued 
she, with a sad, but not bitter firmness, 
“I am not born for these pleasures with- 
out end, «these unceasing fetes of the 
world’s enjoyments. My path in life is 
distinctly traced — it takes me from you 
— let me follow it.” 

Whilst Mile. Derville spoke thus, with 
an undoubted sincerity, M. de Blanche- 
lande felt a sad surprise. Jeanne had 
not only inspired him with the love a 
young beautiful creature can so easily 
cause in the heart of man, but, in spite 
of his light nature, he felt a sincere in- 
terest in her. He had, until now, re- 
flected very little on the future which 
was before the orphan ; or, rather, he 
had a vague, unacknowledged plan, 
which had, at least in his eyes, the merit 
of releasing her from the cares and vex- 
ations of real life. 

He thought that things could last a 
long time as they were ; that Jeanne 
could easily remain with them till Vic- 
torine’s marriage; and when this mo- 
ment came, the baroness, who adored 
her daughter, would feel the separation 
bitterly, and would like nothing better 
than to keep near her that daughter’s 
friend — the amiable, good creature, 
whose rare qualities she had already ap- 
preciated. Some other things would 
then arrange themselves — that were 
already arranged in the baron’s head. 
But the idea of Jeanne’s leaving, had 
n'ever crossed his mind ! And to set out 
to-morrow, or next day, as she proposed ! 
This threat made him no longer himself. 
He could not reply at first; he only mut- 
tered some unintelligible words, among 
which the young girl could only distin- 
guish : 

“ Oh, no ! this is not serious ! you 
cannot wish to do so ; and if you do wish 
it, you cannot do it.” 


“ Indeed,” replied she, “ I not only 
can, but it is my duty, and I will !” 

Whilst she was thus speaking, the 
baron took one of Jeanne’s hands — she 
had no reason for immediately withdraw- 
ing it — and before she dreamt of hin- 
dering him, he quickly raised it to his 
lips. At this instant, a certain Mme. 
de Letang, bristling disagreeably, with 
the pretensions of being a musician 
and a beauty, and from that double 
claim, a particular enemy of Mile. Der- 
ville, entered suddenly into the parlor 
where this little scene was enacting, and 
retired not less precipitately, with the 
carriage of the shocked modesty of a 
woman who has seen something out- 
rageous. 

“ Peste take her !” said M. de Blanche- 
lande, with an energetic gesture of bad 
humor, letting Jeanne’s hand fall, which 
he had held still pressed to his lips. 

Without wishing Jeanne to observe, 
he at once understood the false conclu- 
sions a malevolent person could draw 
from an affair so apparently compromis- 
ing; although in reality the most simple 
and innocent in the world. 

As to Jeanne, she did not see so far, 
and did not fear anything, for her con- 
science was perfectly clear ; still she was 
vexed by this instinctive feeling of proud 
modesty and chaste reserve which is so 
natural to a young girl, who would suf- 
fer in her inmost soul if she supposed 
any one suspected her of the slightest 
familiarity with a man. 

u She will not speak of it,” said the 
baron, awkwardly enough, moving a lit- 
tle away from Jeanne. 

“ And pray ! what do you expect she 
will say ?” quickly replied Jeanne. 

Victorine came in at this moment, 
with red gloves, hat on, whip in hand, 
followed by three young men who were 
to escort her. Neither of them noticed 
the annoyed manner of the baron, nor 
the slightly embarrassed countenance of 
Mile. Derville. 

“ Why ! you are not ready !” said 
Victorine. “ Except papa and yourself, 
all are mounted ! We will start without 
you.” 

“ Without me,” replied Jeanne, “ but 
not without your father !” 

“ Why is this caprice ? for it is a ca- 
price, is it not ?” 




THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


71 


“No, indeed! I am in pain, and I 
need rest.” 

“ As you please !” said Mile. Blanche- 
lande, rather put out. And she departed 
like a whirlwind, followed by her three 
guardsmen. 

The baron went out last, and whis- 
pered Jeanne as he passed : 

“ Do you know you give me great 
pain ?” 

Jeanne made no reply. 

The cavaliers and amazons were ar- 
ranged in charming groups on the steps ; 
the groom held some low short-legged 
Irish cobs with large strong reins ; also 
some Morvan mares with fine strong 
limbs, eyes full of fire, and deep breasts ; 
and the keepers held by leashes the 
dogs, which struggling to free them- 
selves, filled the air with their deep 
baying. In a few minutes all were in 
saddle, and the little troop, with a 
flourish of trumpets, left the court in a 
joyous, brilliant disarray. In a quarter 
of an hour the huntsmen sounded the 
“ bien-lanc6” , from the depths of the 
woods. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

J EANNE, when all alone, went to the 
park, seeking relief from melancholy 
thoughts. She turned to a sheet of 
water they called the Black Pond, 
where she had taken many solitary 
morning walks. She- soon seated her- 
self under the shade of some elder 
bushes (on a rustic bench), whose brown 
shining berries attracted the greedy 
blackbirds. She crossed her hands on 
her knees, lowered her head, and was 
soon lost in thought, interrupted from 
time to time by echoes from the distant 
chase. She reviewed in memory all the 
events in her short but well-filled his- 
tory. She thought of her mother, so 
early removed, whose vigilance and care 
nothing could ever replace. Of her 
father, whose aid she had lost, when 
most in need. Of the laborious but 
peaceful years passed at Saint Denis — 
thought recalled, that Victorine and 
herself had then loved each other de- 
votedly, and she wondered if the feeling 
was as intense now. Turning her re- 
flections from the fading past to the pre- 
sent, she was discontented with the 


baron, with herself, and secretly irri- 
tated against Mme. de Letang, whose 
dangerous hostility she anticipated. If 
she only could take refuge in the future, 
and console herself with hope ! But, 
alas ! she knew too well there was no 
future for her, and she could not allow 
any hope. Under the influence of 
these sad ideas, that nothing broke in 
upon — Jeanne yielded to sad premoni- 
tions. Her eyes filled with large, barely 
restrained tears. Suddenly she raised 
her head and listened. The noise of a. 
galloping horse was heard coming 
through the park, along the hedge that 
sheltered the young girl in her sad 
reverie. 

This horse, Mile. Derville reflected, 
could not belong to one of the hunters, 
for the chase had taken the opposite 
course. The road the unknown travel- 
ler was taking was a private one, pass- 
ing only round the chateau, and was 
used solely by the baron and his inti- 
mate friends. Rapidly and instinc- 
tively, Jeanne dried her tears with the 
back of her hand, and sat motionless on 
the bench ; her first idea was to go away, 
but she remained. What importance 
could this new arrival have for her ? It 
was undoubtedly a friend of the Blan- 
chelandes’ but a stranger for her. An- 
other indifferent one — among so many 
indifferent ones ! 

As he drew near, the horseman 
slackened his speed, and when he 
reached Jeanne, stopped as if he had 
divined her presence. 

“ Well, what is the matter ? Why 
does he not go on ? Can he accident- 
ally have seen me ?” And tremblingly 
she made herself as small as possible, 
and crouched behind a tree. 

After a few moments of silent, eager 
investigation, the stranger must have 
seen the hat and dress of the young girl 
across the bushes. Intensified by the 
autumn sun, for he jumped to the 
ground, tied his horse to a tree, and 
Jeanne soon saw a human form spring 
through the hedge into the walk of the 
Park in which she was seated. 

Mile. Derville felt her heart beat vio- 
lantly, and most earnestly wished she 
was in the shelter of her own room, or 
the parlor of the chateau. She tried to 
rise, but soon seeing how useless and 
unwise it was to fly, she remained seated, 


72 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


but very pale. It was the first time she 
had ever been thus alone with a man. 

This one was certainly not very fright- 
ful. First, he was young — that always 
reassures a woman, and especially a 
young girl. Then he seemed gentle- 
manly ; well made ; of high mien and 
noble bearing. He was of a noble race,, 
with rather a modest, timid manner, 
which was very perceptible. The hand- 
some stranger stopped when he came 
near the young girl. This gave Jeanne 
time to examine him rapidly, and in 
secret. The examination was not unfa- 
vorable to the new-comer. We have 
stated he was young — only twenty-four 
or twenty-five years old. He was large, 
blonde, with an open countenance, 
which expressed a great air of frank- 
ness and loyalty. Even where women 
find themselves in a critical position, 
nothing escapes them ; they notice every- 
thing Jeanne made this flattering ob- 
servation, that the young man was per- 
fectly dressed. We might, perhaps, 
have said that he too closel^ji'es^mbled 
a fashion-plate; but at this time of her 
life Jeanne had a great affection for 
fashion-plates. It was, indeed, with great 
effect that the stranger wore a black 
velvet vest, buttoned over his breast; 
knee-breeches of white duck, imprison- 
ing the leg and showing its perfect out- 
line; boots with innumerable wrinkles 
reaching to the knee. The little velvet 
jockey-cap with its straight front would 
have been unstylish on any head but 
his, but it seemed to suit wonderfully 
with his straight features and rather 
curly hair. A pretty hunting-whip, fin- 
ished off with a gold whistle, completed 
this costume, perhaps a little studied, 
but perfectly successful. 

After the first glance at the person 
who had entered her presence in this 
singular, unexpected manner, Mile. Der- 
ville turned her head away very unaf- 
fectedly, and remained silent and im- 
movable in her seat, waiting. The young 
man took off his hat and approached, 
holding it in his hand. When he was 
near enough to enter into conversation, 
though far enough off not to wound 
her self-respect, “ Madame or mademoi- 
selle ?” said he, with a voice deep and full, 
though sweet and gentle, and stopped. 

“ Mademoiselle,” replied Jeanne, 


while a light smile flitted across the 
corner of her serious mouth. 

The young man came a few steps 
nearer and stood still. He was nearly 
as much embarrassed as herself, yet it 
was with the perfect ease and courtesy 
of a man of the world that he addressed 
her. “ Mademoiselle, allow me to intro- 
duce myself, as there is no one here to 
perform that ceremony. I am a neigh- 
bor. It will not be much more out of 
the way,” said he, gaily, “ than the ex- 
traordinary manner by which I have 
entered your park ; but all is tolerated 
in the country.” 

Jeanne silently looked at the hedge. 

u Oh !” said he, laughing, “ I have 
not injured the enclosings, I have only 
broken the branches. As I have just 
stated, I am one of your country neigh- 
bors — the Count Maxence de Bois-Ro- 
bert;” and he looked closely at Jeanne, 
to see what effect his name would pro- 
duce. 

Jeanne was perfectly unmoved. 

“ I live at my moth ex’s chateau, 
which I suppose you have seen, but I 
have been absent for five years, and only 
returned two or three days ago. When 
I arrived, I found a polite invitation 
from M. de Blanchelande for to-day. 
My mother advised me to come, and 
here I came, thank God and her. For- 
tunately, or unfortunately, I started too 
late, endeavored to regain lost time by 
taking a short cut, which deceived me, 
and have forgotten the road, which I 
never was very familiar with. This is 
the cause, mademoiselle, that instead of 
entering by the gate ( ; He that entereth 
not in by the gate/ &c.)” 

“ You have come through the win- 
dow !” 

“I am ashamed, but not sorry,” re- 
plied the Count de Bois Robert, bowing 
to Jeanne with much grace. “ Since I 
find myself in the park, I cannot be far 
from the chateau.” 

“ You are really very near — it is just 
behind this group of chestnuts — if you 
move ten feet that way, you can see it.” 

“ But how can I get there with my 
horse ?” 

“ Go along this hedge, then turn to 
the left; about five hundred feet from 
here you will find the avenue. You 
cannot get lost this time, as you say you 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


73 


did just now,” replied she, with some 
irony. 

“ It would certainly be inexcusable, 
since you condescend to point out the 
road.” 

After saluting Jeanne respectfully, he 
tried to pass through the hedge. 

“ Sir ! oh, sir ! I have given you bad 
advice — very unintentionally. They are 
now mending that road; the bridge 
across the little stream which runs 
through the corner of the park, over 
there, is broken down ; and though there 
is very little water at the bottom of the 
ravine, it is too deep for your horse to 
cross.” 

“ What shall I do ?” said the young 
man, with a childish air, as if to solicit 
Mile. Derville’s pity. 

“ Well, mon Bieu, you must take the 
long way ; I see no other means.” 

“ By the woods of Hirondelle ?” 

“ Certainly ; it is the only route.” 

“ You do not mean that — it is almost 
two miles around ?” 

u Oh, that is nothing for a blooded 
horse !” 

“ Suppose I wish to join the hunt? 
though now I do not care much about 
that,” said he gallantly. 

“ Oh, that is another thing ! the hunt 
is at the end of the park.” 

“ Exactly opposite to where you were 
sending me. Oh, mademoiselle, you are 
not charitable !” 

“ Please to remember that I have sent 
you nowhere. If you choose to force 
your horse to take a jump of twenty feet 
the road is at your service, and I will 
not detain you.” 

“I see that perfectly ! but I detain 
myself. Twenty feet ! That is the devil’s 
jump in the old legend. This hedge 
seems less unpromising, and I know 
Ferragus well enough to be certain he 
will not leave me behind.” 

“ I am sure of that ; but this will be 
a bad example for him and the robbers.” 

“ I must then go round,” said he, in 
a piteous tone. 

“ Or go through the gate.” 

“ Oh ! I should prefer that; but where 
is this blessed gate ?” 

“ In this little bunch of juniper and 
fir trees.” 

Jeanne arose and walked before the 
count, who could not but notice her 
beautiful figure and her dignified car- 


riage as she passed a winding path 
which was made through the underwood 
leading to the road. They soon reached 
the little gate, which Jeanne opened 
with a key she found hidden in the 
crevice of a tree. Maxence went for his 
horse, which neighed when he saw his 
master. He unfastened him, placed the' 
reins on his neck, and patted him gently, 
talking as if the horse was an intelligent 
being and could understand perfectly 
what he said. He returned to Jeanrfe 
not less astonished at his own temerity 
than at her sudden confidence in a per- 
fect stranger. 

“ You have done a good action,” said 
he to Mile. Derville ; “ for which we both 
thank you — I and my friend Ferragus.” 

The horse, hearing his name, neighed 
again, turning his large liquid eyes on 
the young man, then followed like a dog, 
the reins hanging on his neck, his head 
lowered, scenting his master’s steps in 
the grass. 

The young people- walked side by side. 
Maxence*’ oked at Jeanne ; he had a 
great inclination to offer her his arm, 
but dared not; so they walked silently 
along, happy, perhaps, in their youth 
and beauty — happy also, perhaps, in 
being together. 

The park was large — unproductive 
land is not measured with a greedy hand, 
and they shape largely the surroundings 
of a pleasure house in those countries 
where the land is not very fertile. 

The Baron de Blanchelande had 
omitted nothing which could charm, 
strike, or please, and had united grand- 
eur with beauty. The perspectives 
were skilfully managed ; the accidents 
distributed with art ; everything planned 
to produce the finest effects ; the copses 
of trees formed of the most beautiful 
growth of the forests. 

The count praised with reserve and 
discretion, but with taste, as a man who 
felt nature and loved it. 

Jeanne secretly approved of all he 
said, and his manner of saying it also. 

When they reached the chateau, both 
felt as if they had been friends for 
twenty years. There are periods in life 
when friendship makes rapid strides. 

An exclamation of delight escaped 
Maxence on reaching a certain point 
overlooking an immense panorama. 

“ It seems to me,” replied Jeanne, 


74 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


with a bright smile, “ considering you 
are a neighbor, you know very little 
about Blanchelande!” 

“ I have not been here since the death 
of my father, whom I lost when quite a 
child,” said the count, in a serious, 
moved tone. 

Jeanne thought of the same trial she 
had herself experienced, and a deep 
shade of sadness overspread her counte- 
nance, which had just shone with joy 
and brightness. 

Maxence recognised this sympathy 
she seemed to feel in his sorrow, and 
thanked her by his looks. 

“ Since this sad event I have always 
lived among strangers ; this will explain 
to you why the nearest neighbor of 
Blanchelande knows less of the place 
and its inhabitants than any man in the 
country.” 

“ You must now make up for that, 
sir,” said Jeanne, who was courteous in 
her character of hostess. 

“Oh, mademoiselle ! that is just what 
I desire to do,” said, emphatically, the 
young man. 

They entered the principal court. An 
old domestic, who recognised Bois-Ro- 
bert, ran to meet them, uttering excla- 
mations of surprise and pleasure. 

“Ah, count! how glad the baron, 
madame, and all the rest, will be to see 
you !” 

“ What ! is it you, old Jacques ? well ! 
but how young you always are, notwith- 
standing thy”— 

“ Sixty-five years, count ! sixty-five 
years, well told !” 

“ Mademoiselle, this good man used 
to wait in my father’s house, and has 
often jumped me on his knee. Ah ! I 
have changed much since then, old 
Jacques, and you must have a good me- 
mory to recollect me.” 

“ I have the memory of my heart,” 
replied Jacques, looking at Maxence 
with simple admiration pleasant to be- 
hold. 

A groom took the horse. Jeanne in- 
vited her guest, the Count de Bois- Ro- 
bert, into the house. 

“ Where is madame ?” she asked the 
waiting-maid, whom she found in the 
parlor, in a low tone. 

“ Madame is in her own apartment, 
mademoiselle ; she is very tired, not very 
well, and desires to rest.” 


Maxence did not hear, but he under- 
stood the reply, and did not seem afflicted 
beyond bounds at this little accident. 
But he felt it would be indiscreet to pro- 
long this tete-a-tete with a young girl, 
who might hesitate to dismiss him. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said he, “ I do not 
wish to trespass on your kindness ; 
Jacques will point out the direction of 
the hunt, and I will try to join them.” 

“ Go,” said Jeanne, with her most 
beautiful smile. “ Their breakfast is to be 
at twelve, on Pheasant’s Island, a name 
of happy augury ; I would not cause you 
to miss the first stroke of the fork — you 
have walked far already.” 

“ Or my horse.” 

“ Would you like the stirrup cup ?” 

“ The chatelaines of old always poured 
it out for the chevaliers,” replied Max- 
ence, charmed with the sweet manners 
of the young girl; “ and I cannot refuse 
to take it from your hand.” 

She invited him into the dining-room, 
followed by Jacques, who placed on the 
corner of the heavy oak table, a bottle 
of Bordeaux and a flask of Madeira. 
Jeanne helped the count, with the sweet 
natural grace she always displayed. 

Maxence accepted, with a gratified 
air which showed in his face. He had 
that which generally pleases young girls, 
and puts them at their ease, namely, no 
pretensions, and something good and af- 
fectionate, though dignified, about him. 

One saw that he respected women as 
much as he loved them. 

Jacques had retired, with the discre- 
tion of a well trained servant. 

The count tasted, with sage delibera- 
tion, the bait held out to him by Jeanne, 
and sipped the glass of Spanish wine 
with an appearance of sensual investiga- 
tion which would have done credit to 
the most finished gourmand. He knew 
he must set out with the last drop. 

Seated opposite to Mile. Derville, he 
looked at the high wooden carvings ; on 
the pictures of the hunts ; the portraits 
of the victorious horses in the most 
celebrated races, ornamenting the panels 
of the dining-room; then he looked at 
Jeanne, admiring the bloom of her 
youth, the frankness united with intel- 
ligence, and the fresh, unsullied bright- 
ness of her mind. 

Near her, “ he took no note of time,” 
and unnumbered hours would have 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


75 


passed by. A frightful clock, whose 
invention he sincerely cursed, recalled 
by its determined tones — even to those 
who desired to forget it — that time 
always marches. 

“ I must go,” said he, in a tone of re- 
gret that equalled the most gallant com- 
pliment. 

“ You have only just come,” said 
Jeanne, who did not wish to give a 
more direct reply. 

“I am going away — to return. We 
will meet again.” 

• “ Certainly; at dinner.” 

He held out his hand. 

“ English fashion, then,” said Jeanne, 
giving him hers. 

“No! like the French!” And he 
kissed the sweet delicate hand of Mile. 
Derville, whose color rose to her cheeks 
In obedience to the young girl, the 
groom brought Ferragus — Maxence 
leaped into the saddle and galloped off. 
He turned on reaching the gate, and 
seeing Jeanne still standing at the 
dining-room window, he flung her a 
farewell with the ends of his fingers, 
which could only resemble a kiss, and 
disappeared. 

Once out of the court, he spurred the 
noble Ferragus, who went at such a 
speed as quickly to bring him to his 
destination. Maxence’s thoughts passed 
rapidly; he was in a species of whirl- 
wind. 

He was under the influence of this 
unexpected meeting. He discovered 
Jeanne was adorable, and he wished to 
tell it to the trees of the forests ; to 
the stones on the road ; to the birds in 
the bushes; to the bubbling river. 
There are times when the full breast 
cannot keep things to itself. It over- 
flows and pours out just as flowers give 
out their sweet perfume. 

“ Yes, by my faith !” said he, strik- 
ing his horse with the flat of his hand 
from time to time, “she is the most 
charming creature I have ever met; 
and if I did not know the impossibility 
of love at first sight, I should believe 
myself in love. I do love her — per- 
haps ! she is beautiful, intellectual, 
grave, and playful all at once. She has 
spirit — much spirit ! and she must be 
good. Groodness is written on the sweet 
smile of her innocent lips, in the clear 


sweet look of her deep honest eyes. 
G-o on ! I am not unfortunate.” 

Maxence raised his head with a proud 
movement, expanded his chest, as if to 
breathe more freely the fresh, healthy, 
invigorating air, perfumed by kissing 
the balsamic branches of pines and firs. 

Jeanne, left alone in the chateau, was 
as much engaged thinking of him as he 
of her. The one of the other — they 
were already him and her, a new deli- 
cious feeling, a troubled unknown charm 
filled the young girl’s breast. Her 
heart beat violently, her face flushed. 
She experienced her first emotions of 
womanhood. And this emotion was not 
like the pleasure of mere coquetry she 
had felt in the soirees at Trouville, when 
the fashionable young men, with pearl- 
colored gloves, and hair parted in the 
middle, had displayed their insipid gal- 
lantries. 

Maxence had not praised her in the 
least ; he had not inflicted the imperti- 
nence of a compliment. 

But praise was in his manner — com- 
pliments in his looks. And thus, whilst 
others were so quickly forgotten, she 
declared she would not forget this one, 
even if she should never see him jigain. 
Never to see him again? This was 
already an idea she could not dwell 
upon. But she would see him again. 
Would he not stay some days at the 
chateau, like the rest ? But then he 
left like the others, and he must go 
then — would there not be a void in her 
soul ? She asked herself this fearfully. 
The idea of lo.ve did not, however, enter 
into her mind ; she had never imagined 
love could be so sudden. Love ought 
and could only come with time, and 
only after the man had surrounded with 
attentions the woman whose love he 
wished to gain. After that he should 
“ have courted her,” as they said at St. 
Denis, where the older ones, as in all 
boarding-schools and convents in the 
world, sometimes touch upon this grave 
subject. These rather deep convictions 
lulled Jeanne Derville into a false secu- 
rity. If she had truly believed that what 
she now felt was real love, all that she 
had been told about this fatal sentiment 
bringing such a train of evils, would 
certainly have frightened her, and put 
her on her guard. 


76 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Whilst doubting nothing of this new 
sympathy, so full and sweet, she yielded 
to it a singularly dangerous confidence. 


CHAPTER XX. 

T HE Baroness de Blanchelande, since 
she h‘ad had two young girls living 
with her, adopted the excellent plan of 
making them take the cares of the house 
in turns. 

To-day Jeanne was on duty. 

A palace would not have been too 
splendid or magnificent for him. She 
foraged in the park and the garden ; 
gathered the most beautiful flowers ; 
cut the most elegant branches, and made 
a garden of the dining-room. Her bou- 
quets were doubtlessly true-love poems, 
where each flower, like the “ eastern 
selam," was charged to bear a declara- 
tion to the young and beautiful sultana. 
She spread the table with the richest 
silver and most brilliant glass, and exam- 
ined with great care the bill of fare the 
cook had sent for her approval. 

These thousand little nothings, which 
in truth make up the great whole, filled 
and engrossed the day, which would 
have seemed like an eternity without 
them. When the whole house was 
ready, she said it was time to think of 
herself, and with an art, or rather in- 
stinct of coquetry (whose secret she 
had lost for the last few weeks), she 
made an exquisite toilet. By the man- 
ner in which she arranged her hair 
alone, one could divine the woman who 
loved, and who wished to be loved. 
When all was finished she glanced at 
the mirror, and, for the first time in her 
life, thanked God that she was beautiful. 

Whilst Jeanne took all this trouble 
for a man unknown to her until this 
morning, Maxence also had his share of 
surprises and emotions. 

He had been able to inspire Ferragus 
with his ardor — for the horse found 
wings. He reached the rendezvous at the 
moment they were drawing the first cork. 

A branch of the little river which pass- 
ed alongside of the chateau de Blanche- 
lande entwined Pheasant's Island in its 
humid folds. A ferry-boat passed from 
the shore to the island. Bois-Robert 
found the groups of hunters arranged 
in the most picturesque living disorder, 


around an immense venison-pie. The 
conversation was lively, the gaiety noisy. 
It was the moment when tongues un- 
loosen, the cheeks flush, confidence is 
born between convivialists, elbows are 
touching. The company were seated 
on the ground; the gentlemen waiting 
attentively on the ladies. Two deer, 
hanging from the boughs of a birch 
tree, towards which the hounds turned 
every few moments their eager noses, 
showed plainly enough that the first 
part of the chase had been successful. 

Maxence threw his bridle to a groom, 
got into the boat, and soon rowed to the 
island. 

“ Who comes here ?" asked the Baron 
de Blanchelande, not recognising his 
young neighbor.. 

“ Oh ! it is the Count de Bois-Ro- 
bert, " said one of the hunters, who had 
met Maxence a few days before. 

“ Indeed, I had invited him — a little 
by chance — for I was not certain he had 
returned." And whilst speaking he went 
to the water's edge. 

Maxence jumped on shore. 

“ You have got back at last," said 
Victorine's father, holding out his hand. 
u We have been anxious to have you, 
and now it is mid-day when you reach 
us ! After all, you come from so far." 

“ From Rome ; but I lost my way ; 
and if I had not been fortunate enough 
to meet " 

“ You can tell me whom you met 
directly. Allow me first to present yon 
to these ladies." 

The arrival of the handsome young 
horseman interested the ladies, as an 
unexpected event. The name of Bois- 
Robert ran through the groups. They 
knew he belonged to one of the first 
families in the country ; that he was 
heir to a large estate. Fortune was 
favorable to him, and all were prepared 
to give him a warm greeting. 

Yictorine, who was the hostess, since 
her father gave the breakfast, arose and 
took a step forward, to show Maxence, 
by this mark of attention, that he was 
welcome to Blanchelande. 

“ My daughter," said the baron, still 
holding Maxence's hand, And turning 
to Mile. Blanchelande, “ Yictorine, Mon- 
sieur de Bois-Robert !" 

Yictorine, though it was only a month 
since she left Saint Denis, was no longer 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


77 


a school girl. She raised her eyes to 
Maxence with the air of sweet playful- 
ness that was natural to her, and was 
ready to add a few words of welcome to 
those of her father, when she saw a 
peculiar disturbed expression, almost 
anxious, on the young man’s face. 

Maxence, who \yas entirely unused to 
self-control, and whose emotions were 
strong, withdrew a step, and looked at- 
tentively at Victorine and the baron. 
They saw he wished to speak, they felt 
he had something to say, and they also 
guessed he dared not do so. 

“ Your daughter, mademoiselle ?” 
murmured he, with a bewildered air. 

“ Certainly ! undoubtedly l” said the 
baron, so astonished that he should mis- 
understand. 

“ I thought — it seemed to me — I had 
seen her at Blanchelande V ’ 

“Ah !” said Victorine, quickly enough, 
looking at her father. “ He has seen 
Jeanne !” 

“ Jeanne ! Who may Jeanne be V* 

il Jeanne Derville, an old schoolmate 
of mine !” 

u Indeed !” 

All this had passed aside among the 
three. Maxence, though deeply an- 
noyed, made a strong effort to recover 
himself, and succeeded so well that no 
one noticed what he felt. 

“ Come to the table !” said the baron, 
seating the count on the grass by his 
daughter and opposite himself. 

All took their places, and tried to 
make up for lost time by satisfying their 
lawful appetites, which had been sharp- 
ened by the fresh air of an autumn 
morning, and a magnificent chase through 
forest and field. The commotion caused 
by Maxence’s arrival was soon over, and 
the fun and gaiety which reigned over 
all a few moments before, soon com- 
menced with renewed vigor. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

T HE most dazzling hopes had danced 
before the eyes and passed through 
the mind of Maxence, when he had 
mistaken Mile. Derville for Mile, de 
Blanchelande. He left the chateau, his 
heart overflowing with the exuberance 
of happiness that we, alas ! experience 
ODly in early youth ! and that life, by 


its stern treatment, soon renders us 
incapable of feeling. On learning that 
Jeanne was not what he supposed, and 
that the one he had taken for the 
daughter of the Baron de Blanchelande, 
was only a poor orphan, without position 
or prospects, he felt an acute pain fol- 
lowed by deep anguish of heart. He 
blamed this capricious, unjust, stupid 
destiny which distributes her favors so 
foolishly, making the unworthy rich, 
and leaving those poor, at whose feet he 
would have thrown all the treasures of 
the world ! 

But this was not the time for the 
expression of such sentiments, however 
just they might be. He knew there 
were a thousand reasons for prudence 
and caution — that the least forgetful- 
ness would be followed by the most 
serious results. He said all this to 
himself. But he was at the age when 
caution is painful — circumspection diffi- 
cult ; and he wished himself anywhere 
than by Victorine’s side. 

Every one knows the powerful, irre- 
sistible effect of the Arabian bean, so 
fortunately discovered by a goat; of 
coffee, in a word, which refreshes so 
gratefully our worn-out strength, and 
galvanizes our exhausted nerves. Max- 
ence, after drinking a cup, sugared and 
heated to perfection, felt his natural 
animation and gaiety return. The 
aroma of the Mocha is a sovereign 
magic incantation. It chased the blue 
devils far away ! It occurred to him, 
that after all, he had not so much to 
complain about, because he had walked 
five minutes in the park, eaten a biscuit 
and drank a glass of wine with a young 
and pretty girl. Greater evils than that 
might happen to him. 

She who had introduced him to the 
chateau was not, it is true, the daughter 
of the Baron, as he had at first supposed. 
But what difference was that, after all? 
It is for herself, not for her father, that 
a woman is loved. Love ! Is it then 
really true, that he loves this Mile. 
Derville, whom he has barely seen for 
an hour? And if he should love her, 
was he not free to choose as his heart 
directed? Undoubtedly. Still, never- 
theless, he frowned more than once ! A 
cloud passed over his brow, usually as 
smooth as a child’s ! 

A fox surprised in a hole where he 


78 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


was taking his noon-day siesta, started 
a few steps from the group where the 
count was seated. The yelps of the 
dogs, the neighing of the horses, the 
horns of the grooms made one of those 
concerts in which the echoes of the 
woods rejoice ! 

All started. Maxence was carried 
away by the general movement. They 
set off on a gallop. His troubles fled for 
a time. Yet soon his memory brought 
back Mile. Derville’s charming image. 
He impatiently drove it away. When 
it had gone, he brought it back again, 
much astonished at his powerlessness to 
turn away from it. 

The fox does not lead one so far as 
the wolf, which is brought down four or 
five miles from her starting point. He 
feels his limbs and breath insufficient for 
such a desperate race. So he tries stra- 
tagem, makes a thousand turns, bewil- 
ders the dogs in the woods, and often 
ends by defeating them. 

They lost two or three hpurs in the 
pursuit, and gained nothing. The suc- 
cesses of the morning condoled them for 
the ill luck of the afternoon. The baron, 
seeing that the sun was setting behind 
the grand purple curtains edging the 
banks of the Loire, gave the signal of 
return. 

It was night when they reached the 
gate of the chateau. It grows dark soon 
in the fall. The, horns calling off the 
hounds, sounded like a triumphal march. 
Some peasants carried the deer, on 
branches of the birch tree, ornamented 
with its leaves. 

Mme. de Blanchelande, who was as 
fond of ostentatious display as her hus- 
band, had ordered torches to be lighted 
and carried by the servants before the 
hunters, through the court. 

Jeanne— moved, excited — stood along- 
side of the baroness on the last step of 
the splendidly illuminated flight. 

The rays of the torches tinted the 
pale marble of her face. She was beau- 
tiful at this moment, with the adorable 
beauty which comes from the blooming 
of the soul, on the face of a young girl 
who finds herself in love, as the fresh, 
pure bud of a flower opens to the spring. 
Bent slightly forward, her hand resting 
on the balustrade, she tried to penetrate 
the brilliant, noisy groups in the main 
court, searching there, alas ! uncon- 


sciously, for the stranger of the morning 
— already no more a stranger for her. 

Maxence, who had not seen the 
baroness for several years, required no 
excuse for his eagerness to join her. 
He threw his bridle to the first groom 
he saw, and mounted first the two flights 
of massive steps that separated him from 
Mme. de Blanchelande. It was Jeanne, 
however, he looked at, and as he met 
her again, he felt return in their strength 
and freshness the first impressions which 
were engendered in the morning when 
he had met her. 

He saw that the countenance of this 
sweet creature, which had seemed grave 
and rather sad, was now beaming with 
joy and youthful gaiety. It is in youth 
alone we taste unreflectingly the emo- 
tions of happiness. Later, we dare not. 

Whilst Maxence was thus reflecting, 
Jeanne’s observations were of an entirely 
opposite character. It seemed to her 
that the air of frankness and good humor 
she had seen in the young man was 
now replaced by a restrained and frozen 
manner which gave her pain. Although 
she noticed the fact, she could not divine 
the cause, and consequently felt a vague 
sense of uneasiness. 

Maxence and the baroness were still 
exchanging their polite welcoming 
speeches, when Yictorine, who had been 
helped from her horse by one * of her 
admirers, coquettishly raising her long 
skirt, joined the little group composed 
of her mother, the count, and Jeanne. 
Yictorine was naturally the least suspi- 
cious person in the world. How did it 
then happen that she looked uneasily 
from Maxence to Jeanne, from Jeanne 
to Maxence? It seemed to her, that 
Jeanne was more beautiful this evening 
than usual — and this was true. The 
night before she would have rejoiced at 
this — why did it disturb her to-day ? 
She was ignorant of the secret of this 
new beauty ; she knew not that this 
glowing brightness, this sweet radiant 
smile, Jeanne owed to her incipient love. 
Still less could she understand the slight 
shade of sadness settled on Bois-Bobert’s 
brow, but she was nevertheless disturbed 
by it all. Could it be that Yictorine 
loved Maxence ? Not the least in the 
world — Yictorine was in love with no 
one. All the young men who surrounded 
her were in her eyes mere satellites of 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


T9 


her beauty ; but she could not bear that 
even one should escape her all-powerful 
attractions. 

We must remember, besides, that for 
the last few days, Victorine had not 
been exactly as usual to her friend. 
This feeling of rivalry, so natural between 
women, as we are told, and which she 
had never before experienced, awoke 
suddenly in her soul. She had, however, 
lost none of the homage to which her 
vanity clung. So far from dreaming of 
winning them from the young chatelaine, 
Jeanne had received with most discour- 
aging coldness those who tried to turn 
towards herself. 

But although this was so, Victorine, 
warned by some secret instinct, divined 
for the first time in her friend an irre- 
sistibly powerful attraction — a hidden 
charm — which would render a contest 
with her more than dangerous. By not 
scattering her charms, Jeanne could 
bring all to bear on one point to gain 
her end — and suppose this end was the 
Count de Bois-Robert ? 

Indeed, no ! that should not be — that 
could not be ! The daughter of the 
Baron de Blanchelande would not per- 
mit it, cost what it would ! She knew 
perfectly how to stop it. To begin, she 
would watch their every movement — 
nothing should escape her. 

Jeanne was entirely ignorant of what 
was now passing in her friend’s breast. 
Her frank, loyal nature never gave her 
the slightest suspicion. Her first thought 
was to throw her arms around Victorine’s 
neck, and with all the sweet caresses by 
which young, pure girls pour out their 
overflowing tenderness, to relate her 
dawning happiness. To say to her : 
il Look at me — embrace me — feel how 
my heart beats ! I am commencing to 
love — I do love !” 

She was stopped by the cold manner 
of Mile, de Blanchelande. She at once 
understood that the home of those 
charming friendly confidences which 
diminish by half our troubles, and double 
our joys, was gone for ever ! She felt 
she must hide her thoughts from Mile, 
de Blanchelande, whom she no longer 
called Victorine, and disguise from her 
the secret of her soul. The baron’s 
manner rendered this reserve still more 
necessary. The little incident of the 
morning, that she had entirely forgotten, 
C (5 


recurred to her memory. Her meeting 
with Maxence had thrown a new light 
upon everything : she took an exact 
account of a thousand things, not at 
first understood. “ Love is the sun of 
the soul, it lightens up its deepest places.” 
Hunters and huntresses ascended to 
their rooms to repair the disorders in- 
separable from a five or six hours’ race 
across the fields. 

Mile de Blanchelande and Mile. Der- 
ville, who had had all the day in which 
to beautify, remained alone in the saloon. 

Victorine’s mother seemed full of joy 
at M. de Bois-Robert’s return to France, 
and though she did not confide in 
Jeanne, it was easy to see that the arri- 
val of the young count coincided with 
projects readily divined. 

The poor orphan experienced a vague 
uneasiness, amounting almost to anguish. 

“ How do you like the stranger, darl- 
ing?” asked the baroness of Mile. Der- 
ville, who, seated near her, capriciously- 
let her heedle fall whilst working the 
points of a very intricate piece of em- 
broidery. 

“ Oh, madame ! I like him very 
much !” replfed Jeanne, without raising 
her eyes. 

“ This seems to be the opinion of 
every one. Do you think Victorine will, 
be pleased with him ?” 

“ I think, madame, he cannot be dis- 
pleasing to any one.” 

Whilst speaking thus, Jeanne dried a 
drop of blood which ran from her finger, 
cruelly wounded by her needle. 

“ Well done, you stupid little one ! 
Why do you work so steadily ?” said 
the baroness, taking away her em- 
broidery. “ One would say you had an 
appointed task. You are no longer at; 
Saint Denis.” 

“ Oh ! why am I not still there?” 
jnurmured the young girl. 

“ Let us see if all is arranged,” con- 
tinued Mme. de Blanchelande, who did' 
not hesitate to give an eye to everything,, 
as mistress of the house. 

On reaching the dining-room she 
could not restrain a gesture of surprise, 
and satisfaction at the good taste and. 
true elegance with which Jeanne had. 
arranged the table. 

“ I had not ordered this grand array 
of silver, but you have had more fore- 
thought, and I am much pleased. To- 


80 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


day nothing is too beautiful. As you 
have succeeded so well with these bou- 
quets, you are decidedly the Fairy of the 
Roses. If I knew how to paint I would 
take you as a model for my beautiful 
flower girl. You give grace to the 
thistle, and you make the holly a pleas- 
ing plant.” 

I do not know what Jeanne would 
have answered, for the butler entered, 
carrying on a little silver waiter the 
cards with the guests’ names, and a bill 
of fare. 

“ Let us arrange the seats,” said the 
baroness. “ I wish all to be satisfied 
to-day. By whom shall I place Mile. 
Derville ? I shall not know if she does 
not tell me, for I have been unable to 
guess, which of these young and hand- 
some cavaliers please her the most.” 

“ They all please me equally, mad- 
ame.” 

“ So much the better ; I cannot go 
far wrong — hold ! I will give you Mon- 
sieur de Jonzac on your right; he is 
rather young, but he ties his cravat so 
well ! and Monsieur d’Egly on your 
left; he is a little old, but he is very 
polite, and has some mind — that you 
know will suit you.” 

Jeanne placed the two cards as the 
baronness indicated without replying. 
Mme. de Blanchelande continued to 
float around (as much as her silk dress 
would allow) behind the chairs already 
placed at the table, setting the cards on 
the plates decorated with stars, and dis- 
playing a motto in large red letter sur- 
rounded by the baron’s crest. 

“ The marquise here right ; the 
vicomtesse on the same side, four seats 
off — so that they can neither see nor 
hear each other.” 

Mile. Derville could not help smiling. 

“ Oh ! Victorine here and M. de Bois- 
Robert by her !” 

Jeanne followed all the baroness’s 
movements with eager attention, who, 
if she had looked up at this moment, 
would have been frightened by her pale- 
ness and the trembling of her hands. 
Fortunately she did npt notice her. 

At this moment the dinner was an- 
nounced, and Mme. de Blanchelande 
hurried to the drawing-room, saying to 
Jeanne without turning her head, 
M Come, my beauty.” 

3Ille. Derville followed her with that 


pensive, mechanical obedience which is 
natural to us in some events of life, 
when it seems as if we had no will of 
our own. She looked in the glass as she 
passed, and saw how pale and changed 
she had become. 

“ And I thought I was strong !” said 
she, slightly shrugging her shoulders. 
She was truly strong, for she called all 
her powers to her aid, and conquering 
her sad feelings, showed to all a calm, 
unmoved — almost serene — brow. 

It was easy for Jeanne to see that the 
arrival of Maxence at the chateau de 
Blanchelande was an important event. 

Its first consequence was to disconcert 
all the young men who had hitherto had 
any pretensions for Yictorine’s hand. 

We must confess that the young count 
did not look very triumphant. Ilis first 
glance on entering the saloon was for 
Jeanne. His looks searched for her 
with a mixture of timidity and uneasi- 
ness which could not escape the eyes of 
shrewd observers. 

But their sagacity was useless if they 
tried to exercise it on Mile. Derville, 
for, taught by experience, she allowed 
nothing to be seen of this internal drama. 
She suffered, nevertheless, at seeing 
Maxence by Victorine, paying her the 
thousand little attentions that are the 
duty of a man of the world to the lady 
who is confided to his care, from the 
soup to the dessert, 

It was a fact that M. de Bois-Robert’s 
eyes were constantly raised to her face, 
seeming to demand pardon for these at- 
tentions to another — a delicate attention 
fully appreciated by Jeanne. Still she 
could not understand his constraint and 
embarrassment. If what she believed 
was true, if his feelings were perfectly 
loyal — honorable for him and her — why 
was he so careful to hide them? 

However, these first blossoms of love’s 
tenderness in her woman’s heart brought 
her so much joy, that notwithstanding 
the secret tortures of her souh Jeanne 
did not dream of regretting. She was 
consoled by the idea of the secret intel- 
ligence so quickly established between 
Maxence and herself. It pleased her to 
think they had a secret between them, 
although its only value was in being a 
secret. 

As for Victorine, she took pride in 
the attentions and devotion of the count. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


81 


Her manners were haughty, and her 
looks said, “Do not meddle with him. 
You see he is entirely devoted to me.” 

These looks froze poor Jeanne, who 
felt slight shivers run through her 
frame. She was so engrossed by her 
emotions that she did not notice the 
baron was watching her with eager at- 
tention, which allowed nothing to escape. 

The dinner was like all country din- 
ners, where the guests are intimate, and 
etiquette and ceremony quickly thrown 
aside. They talked much — drank still 
more. When they entered the parlor 
their heads were light enough. 

They had drowned in the sparkle pf 
the wine of Champagne the fatigues of 
the morning, and all the young people, 
lively and alert, were ready for fun. 

“ My dear little one,” said Mme. de 
Blanchelande to Jeanne, in a slightly 
imperious and patronizing tone, which ad- 
mitted neither of reply nor refusal, “give 
us a little music this evening ; it will be 
very kind of you. These ladies can dance.” 

The baroness was not spiteful, but she 
was a mother, and a hundred times more 
jealous for her daughter than she had 
been for herself. She had noticed the 
impression produced on Maxence by 
Mile. Derville, and could not resist, even 
at the price of being cruel, the satisfac- 
tion of placing on a lower level and in a 
humiliating back-ground the one who 
might become a dangerous rival for Vic- 
torine. The blow told ; Jeanne felt it. 
Under any other circumstances she 
would have disdained to retaliate, but 
she was nervous this evening, easily irri- 
tated, and before M. de Bois-Robert, 
would not, for all the world, allow her- 
self to be imposed upon with impunity. 

“ Mon Dieu !” said she, in a calm, 
natural voice, but in a very decided 
tone, “ I would do so with much plea- 
sure, but I have been quiet all day, and 
my feet will not keep still. Yictorine 
and I will take turns in dancing, and as 
I am the youngest,” said she, rather 
maliciously, “ I will play first.” 

Whilst thus speaking, Jeanne crossed 
the saloon, with the elegant dignified 
manner by which the goddesses were 
formerly discovered, when it pleased 
them to descend from Olympus, to walk 
on the earth. 

The baroness silently bit her lips. 
The baron thought his wife displayed 


very bad taste in this, but he knew 
well that some evils are increased by the 
endeavors to repair them. He, there- 
fore, feigned to see and hear nothing, 
remaining apparently ignorant of the 
little incident, which had been noticed 
in its slightest details by every one. He 
thought, however, he owed Jeanne some 
indirect amends, so he offered her his 
arm, to lead her to the piano, with an 
air of most deferential courtesy. 

“ What are you going to play ?” 

u A redowa.” 

c< May I ask your hand for the first 
mazourka ?” 

“ It is already engaged.” 

“ To whom ?” asked he with quick 
anxiety. 

“To the man who wears the best cra- 
vat in France!” replied she, with a 
smile, indicating with a glance M. de 
Jonzac, who stood a few steps from them, 
in a window recess, alongside of Victo- 
rine, whom Maxence had unaffectedly 
quitted on leaving the table. 

“ Will you not give me my turn ?” 
continued the baron, who wished to ob- 
tain pardon, if not forgetfulness, for his 
little temerities of the morning. 

“ Yes, indeed ! — if, however, you will 
wait long enough.” 

“ I will wait as long as you please, if 
you give me hope.” 

“ Well, then, a quadrille.” 

“ Ah ! and at what time, if you 
please ?” 

“ After you have danced with all these 
ladies !” 

“You are rather hard.” 

“ I have reason to be, but I am only 
prudent; I do not wish to arouse their 
jealousy. See, they now regard me as 
this black viper hidden among these 
vases of flowers, because of the five 
minutes t§te-h-tete with which you have 
honored your humble servant this morn- 
ing.” 

“Mme. de Letang ? Oh! I would 
like to poison her !” 

“ I will not hinder you,” replied the 
young girl, opening the piano; “but 
just now it is impossible to follow out 
you philanthropic idea.” 

The baron withdrew, without replying. 

The ball commenced. Jeanne’s white, 
delicate, skilful hands floated softly over 
the keys, quickened, rose, threw out off- 
handedly some loud notes, struck some 


82 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


harmonies, played a prelude, and when 
every one was in place, commenced 
vigorously the quadrille, which was 
asked for instead of the redowa. 

Maxence danced with Victorine. Mile. 
Derville rose after the last figure, and 
walked over to Victorine, with an air 
of great gaiety. 

“ It is your turn now, my sweet one,” 
said she to Victorine, laying her hand 
on her shoulder. 

Victorine felt very happy at this mo- 
ment; she was in the best of good- 
humors. She passed her arm around 
Jeanne’s waist saying: 

“ You are right, I will play now.” 

The Count de Bois-Robert and Mile. 
Derville were near each other, almost 
isolated, in the midst of the groups 
formed here and there in the saloon. 

“ Chance has brought me more than 
I dared to ask for,” said Maxence, look- 
ing at the young girl. 

“ You ask very little from her,” said 
Jeanne, without raising her eyes, but 
with a slightly ironical smile. 

“ And if I ask, not from her, but from 
you, the favor of the waltz Mile, de 
Blanchelande is going to play, what 
shall be my answer ?” 

“ That I have obliged you to do so ; 
that it is a forced waltz !” replied she, 
with a burst of sonorous, soft laughter, 
which was not exactly the commentary 
of the sentence, but which served to 
distract the attention of two or three 
exquisite individuals, who listened as 
they passed, hoping to catch some frag- 
ments of the conversation. 

Victorine took her seat at the piano, 
not very well satisfied. The piano, at 
that period, seemed made for mothers 
of fifty years, rather than for young 
girls of eighteen, and she resolved to 
stay there as few moments as she could. 
She played rapidly the first bars of Ro- 
sita. Jeanne put one hand on Maxence’s 
shoulder, allowing the other to fall into 
his extended hand, and they waltzed. 

Notwithstanding the soirees of Trou- 
ville, of Maisons Lafitte, one might say 
it was the first waltz Jeanne had ever 
danced. The others went for nothing. 
The pure chaste young girl had never 
felt thus drawn near the breast and 
entwined in the arms of a young man, 
towards whom she was already drawn by 
the impulse of her heart; she had never 


before felt anything that in the least 
resembled this new, unknown, and all- 
powerful sensation. The young men 
she had met at the few balls she had 
been at were dancers, but not men in 
her eyes; she accepted them, left them, 
accepted them again without the slight- 
est quickening of her pulse. But M. 
de Bois-Robert had in an instant revealed 
a new life. Enveloped, so to speak, by 
his breath, carried away by him in this 
whirlwind of charming circles, where 
the rapid movements confusing her 
head, she was seized with a species of 
vertigo from which the poor young 
creature could not well defend herself, 
she was so entirely engulfed by this new 
danger. 

Maxence waltzed well ; his strong arm 
not only supported, but skilfully guided 
his partner, keeping her, untouched, in 
the midst of other couples, carried away 
as themselves by the speed of the time. 
He carried her four or five times round 
the saloon ; but when he saw a cloud 
over her face, the growing trouble in 
her misty eyes; when he felt the hand 
on his shoulder moving nervously, whilst 
the other trembled between his fingers, 
he gently stopped. They found they 
were near a deep recess of a window 
which was unoccupied, and in which a 
tapestry sofa offered a convenient seat, 
protected from curious eyes by an enor- 
mous japanese vase which was surmoun- 
ted by a bunch of flowers and luxuriant 
leaves. 

“ I think,” said Maxence, in a low 
tone, still holding the slight graceful 
figure of Mile. Derville, “ I think we 
had better rest a little while.” She 
silently bowed her consent. He led 
her to the bench, raising with his hand 
the drooping branches, and made her 
sit down. 

Jeanne placed herself against the 
window, her head thrown slightly back, 
and held her handkerchief to her lips, 
from which came short' hurried breath- 
ings. 

“Rest yourself,” said Maxence, in a 
sweet caressing tone. 

“ We ought to waltz all the time.” 

M. de Bois-Robert looked at Mile. 
Derville some time without speaking. 

He found her charming; and it was 
indeed impossible to dream of anything 
more exquisitely beautiful than Jeanne 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


83 


at this moment. The excitement of the 
. waltz had heightened the carnation of 
her fresh young face, whilst her internal 
emotion threw a liquid light into her 
eyes. One could see that a mixture of 
sweetness, pride, tenderness, and passion 
prevailed over her, and made her a re- 
markably desirable conquest. It is a 
strange, painful trial, to feel one’s self 
near happiness, and that when no visible 
objection exists, still we cannot grasp it. 
This trial Bois-Robert experienced. The 
unfortunate youth was obliged to con- 
tend against himself and his own incli- 
nations which so strongly drew him to- 
wards Jeanne. With what deep, sincere 
joy would he have yielded himself to 
them on the morning of that very day ! 

Maxence remained standing silently 
before Jeanne for several moments ; then 
with a sudden resolution, which seemed 
to cost him a great effort, “Behold! 
mademoiselle,” said he, “ a strange day, 
whose ending is so different from its 
commencement, that I do not yet know 
if I ought to count it among the good 
or evil days which divide my life. Alas ! 
like all other men.” 

Mile. Derville’s face expressed undis- 
guised surprise at this commencement. 
She withdrew the handkerchief from 
her lips rather quickly, and looked in- 
quiringly at the young man. 

“ Truly,” continued M. de Bois-Ro - 
bert, “ I have been to-day happy and un- 
happy.” 

“ Why happy ?” asked she, gently. 

“ Because I have seen you,” said he, 
so frankly, his sincerity could not be 
doubted; and in such a respectful manner, 
that the most susceptible person could 
not feel alarmed or on their guard. 

“ And why unhappy ?” continued the 
orphan in a still lower tone, whilst hex- 
heart beat quickly under her gauze robe. 

Maxence’s reply to the first question, 
started instantly from his lips, like the 
eruption escaping from an over-charged 
crater. Now, on the contrary, he 
thought, he hesitated, he searched for 
words that would not come. 

Jeanne’s anxiety increased from this 
slowness and visible embarrassment. 
Her true, open, but decided look, inter- 
rogated the young man’s countenance, 
whose color went an$ came. 

In the meantime M. de Blanchelande, 
who with his eyes had followed Jeanne 


and M. de Bois-Robert through the 
waltz, and had accompanied them to the 
threshold of their improvised reti-eat, 
now thought they had been long enough 
alone, and sought a pretext for following 
them. “ You are too warm, my child,” 
said he, in a paternal tone, “ to be so 
near this window. You will take cold — 
they do not shut tight — have you not 
felt the draught ?” 

Whilst speaking, he entered the recess 
as if to prove the truth of his assertions. 
Maxence was obliged to move a little to 
let him pass, and he was thus placed be- 
tween and separated them. 

The two young people could not dis- 
simulate, and their embarrassment could 
not be long unobserved by such a man 
as the baron. This intimacy between 
them astonished and hurt him. He 
could not explain it, and it secretly irri- 
tated him. 

A prey to a fit of jealousy, which dis- 
turbs in man the exercise of his intelli- 
gence, and leaves his actions no longer 
free, he remained by Mile. Derville to 
hinder her, at least, from being with 
Maxence in this half solitude. 

Jeanne was much annoyed by this 
action, not only because it prevented 
the earnestly-hoped-for explanation, but 
because the attentions of Victorine’s 
father, which had always been tiresome 
and disagreeable, now that they inter- 
fered between her and another, threat- 
ened to become perfectly odious. Her 
expressive countenance, which she did 
not in the least control, showed clearly 
what she felt, while M. de Blanchelande 
was still more displeased. 

There was between our three person- 
ages what in politics they call a dead 
lock. Yictorine, who had not promised 
to play the part of “ orchestra” all alone 
for the whole evening, struck the last 
notes of the waltz, and left the piano. 

The couples separated, and formed 
gay, lively groups, spreading over the 
whole saloon. Jeanne, Maxence, and 
the baron could not, unnoticed, remain 
for ever in the recess of a window. 

Mile. Derville soon saw herself sur- 
rounded, as if they had been commanded 
to overwhelm her with attention. This 
eagerness rather astonished her, for she 
had taken an insignificant part lately in 
the noisy pleasures of the soirees of the 
chateau. She had only appeared in the 


84 • THE PUPIL OF THE 

drawing-room in conformity to tlie con- 
ventionalities and laws of hospitality, 
withdrawing as soon as it was possible. 

Now there was a brightness about her, 
showing a return of interest in life. All 
the youth, life, gaiety, and eager plea- 
sures of the chateau, made her happy, 
and the joyous welcome of her return 
shone from all eyes. The men threw 
off their reserve. They contended for 
the honor of a dance with her. She re- 
paid them with a good grace for the 
sweet flattery they bestowed on her; 
To see her at this moment one would 
say she was the happiest creature in the 
world. 

They would have been mistaken. 
Happiness is naturally more peaceable 
and calm. The fact was, Jeanne felt as 
if she needed noise, distraction, motion, 
and she seized all with avidity. 

, This was certainly the most animated 
evening they had passed at the chateau. 
But, as it often happens when human 
passions are brought into play, many 
faces were masked: More than one had 
deceitful looks. More than one mouth 
expressed sentiments not seconded by the 
heart, or, as an old author so tersely ex- 
presses it, “ The use of language is to 
conceal thought.” 

M. de Blanchelande, notwithstanding 
the appearance of light gaiety with which 
he floated from one woman to another, 
felt the sting of an unappeased jealousy, 
under the influence of constraint that he 
imposed on himself, in the presence of 
the youth and elegance of those whom 
he supposed to be dangerous rivals. His 
desires increased by degrees, until what 
he supposed a passing fancy now became 
a furious passion. 

Yictorine, whose mother had implanted 
in her breast ideas well received by young 
girls, and especially agreeable on account 
of Maxence’s appearance, experienced 
displeasure in dreaming that her com- 
panion and friend could be a stumbling 
block in her path. An obstacle! In- 
deed, she would not endure that ! She, 
the spoiled child, who had always had 
her own way, and whose slightest wish 
every one in the house seemed only too 
happy to promote ! 

Mme. de Blanchelande thought too 
highly of her daughter’s merits and per- 
fections to imagine any one’s even enter- 
ing the lists against her. She did not 


LEGION OF HONOR. 

therefore honor Jeanne by fearing her in 
the slighest degree, but it was annoying 
to think that her hopes, her plans, her 
wishes could be disarranged in the 
least by an orphan, a stranger, portion- 
less, whom she had imprudently brought 
to her home. And then Maxence’s atten- 
tions to Jeanne seemed an injury to Vic- 
torine. But, thank God ! she will not 
always be at the chateau, that is, if one 
can make her leave. But we will make 
her leave. Her husband’s manner had 
been singular towards this young lady 
for several days. However, this was not 
the time for recriminations. The mother 
in the baroness overruled the wife. She 
would demand an account for them later. 

Maxence on his part was the victim 
of a troubled mind. He regretted ever 
coming to the chateau de Blanchelande. 
He wished to leave, but felt himself 
detained by a strong fascination. Ah ! 
why had he met two young ladies, instead 
of one ? Why was not Jeanne, Victorine? 
Jeanne for her part, though too proud 
to complain, deserved pity. These first 
emotions of love, which usually bring 
the young soul such pure, sweet, deep 
joys, had brought her only a sorrowful 
care, she did know what to think. Max- 
ence’s half confidences so rudely inter- 
rupted, left her in a cruel uncertainty. 
There was a mystery in it all she could 
not understand, but which threw her 
into a state, amounting almost to anguish. 
Notwithstanding the reserve, discretion, 
and respect of Maxence, she saw dis- 
tinctly (women never mistake in these 
things) that he was drawn to her by a 
sympathy as powerful as rapid. 

Why did it make him suffer? Why 
did he fight against it, instead of yield- 
ing to it with that confidence which she 
deserved, with that frankness which is 
the most beautiful appendage of youth ? 

Such were the questions Jeanne 
asked herself, without being able to 
answer during the sleeplessness of a 
feverish night. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

M adame de blanchelande 

made her husband understand by 
a secret signal that she desired a private 
interview. The baron, whose conscience 
was not without fear,. since his conduct 
was not without reproach, concealed his 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


85 


annoyance, and when every one had re- 
tired, went rather sheepishly towards his 
wife’s apartment, the threshold of which 
he had respected too much to cross for 
many a long day. 

Mme. de Blanchelande entered at 
once into her subject, without preamble 
or oratorical precaution. 

“ I must acknowledge,” said she, 
offering her husband a seat in front of 
her, “that the day we asked that young 
lady to our house, we did a very foolish 
thing.” 

“ I have felt several times inclined 
to reproach you on the subject,” replied 
the baron, with a subtle hypocrisy which 
did not deceive his wife ; but she allowed 
it to pass for the moment. 

“ I have made a mistake, or we both 
have, as you please ! It is of little im- 
portance where the fault lies! We must 
now think only of the remedy.” 

M. de Blanchelande knew his wife 
well enough to understand from the 
preface what the conclusion would be. 
He merely bowed his head slowly with 
a mute acquiescence not very compro- 
mising. 

“ Edward,” continued the baroness in 
a solemn manner, “do you love your 
daughter ?” , 

“ Do I love my daughter ? You ask 
me that? You? Do you not know it? 
Have I ever given you the right to ask 
such a question ?” 

“You are right and I am wrong! I 
do you that justice ! I know that if you 
are as a husband slightly indifferent, 
you are certainly a good father.” 

“ It is fortunate that you are con- 
vinced of that.” 

“ Yes, I am certain of it ! And since 
you love Victorine, you must see that 
Jeanne cannot stay here any longer.” 

The blow was direct but not unex- 
pected, and the baron instantly tried to 
ward it off. 

“ I do not precisely understand,” said 
he with great calmness, “ how a noble 
young girl — modest, well educated, and 
perfectly lady-like — could be out of 
place anywhere ; especially in our 
house.” 

“ Is it possible you defend her ?” 

“Is it possible you attack her ?” 

“ I have some reason to do so, for I 
am not so blind as it pleases certain 
persons to suppose. But I have re- 


nounced, as you know, for a long time 
all personal pretensions. I have long 
since considered it my duty to sacrifice 
myself for the internal peace and dignity 
of the family.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Oh, nothing ! I am rambling from 
the subject! Once more, it is of your 
daughter’s affairs I would speak, and on 
that subject I make no terms !” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“ Then you do not, because you are 
determined to remain blind. This is all 
put on — but if you please, I will con- 
tinue. You are aware that Maxence’s 
mother and ourselves have arranged 
some plans and plighted our words.” 

“ Certainly, still — ” 

“ And do you not feel that while 
Mile. Derville remains here, Bois-Ro- 
bert will look at no one else ?” 

The baron knew how perfectly true 
his wife’s remarks were ; but this it was 
impossible for him to acknowledge. If 
he agreed with her, Jeanne would have 
to leave Blanchelande ; and to this, at 
once, he would not consent for all the 
world. He saw a thousand dangers in 
bringing these two young people to- 
gether, but he shrank from Mile. Der- 
ville’s departure more than all the rest. 
In the fierce, foolish egotism of his pas- 
sions, he much preferred Maxence’s 
departure, no matter what became of 
their designs on the young count ; but 
he could not express this to any one, 
least of all to his wife. 

“ I think there is a little exaggeration 
in your fears,” replied he, with an affec- 
tation of indifference. 

“ I tell you she has made a deep im- 
pression on him.” 

And as the baron tried to make a 
faint denial : 

“ Perhaps you do not believe her ca- 
pable of such fascinations ?” continued 
the baroness, flashing on the baron her 
quick piercing look, and frowning so 
that, notwithstanding she was a blonde, 
her air was very tragic. 

M. de Blanchelande saw that his wife 
was becoming more and more aggressive, 
and that he must bring more prudence 
and reserve into play. 

“ I believe,” said he, “ that a woman 
is capable of accomplishing all she de- 
sires.” 

“ Our duty is then perfectly clear, 


86 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


and I hope you will aid me in its fulfil- 
ment ?” 

“ You should be aware of that with- 
out doubt; only the question is on this 
word duty — a very elastic word. Let 
us consider coolly, first, whether Max- 
ence loves, or does not love, Mile. Der- 
ville.” 

11 Certainly. After that ?” 

“ If he does love her, nothing we can 
do will destroy this love in his heart ; 
and if he does not love her, why should 
we gratuitously offend a poor young girl, 
who would have the right to rely on us 
for protection ?” 

I am of another opinion. In send- 
ing her away, if they are not yet in love, 
we will prevent the evil ; and if they 
are in love, we will repair it.” 

u You are entirely mistaken ; absence 
never kills true love. If by taking ad- 
vantage of a momentary weakness and 
despair, we throw Maxence into the 
arms of our daughter, his heart still 
filled with the image of another, we will 
only succeed in making three people un- 
happy. Is this what you wish to ac- 
complish ?” 

u Certainly not, as you know perfectly 
well ; but you are far from comprehend- 
ing the state of affairs. Your siren has 
not yet charmed Bois-Robert to such an 
extent that he cannot live without her. 
Yictorine, besides, is capable of making 
him entirely forgetful of her. Only let 
her go away ! that is all I ask of you.” 

“ She shall go !” 

u Right — but when ?” 

“ Permit me, now that we have agreed 
on the main question, to arrange all the 
rest. I have duties, as the father of a 
family, and you see I do not cast them 
aside, but I have others also, and no- 
thing will prevent me from fulfilling 
them ” 

“ What are they, then ?” 

11 Those of the master of the house ; 
the head responsible for the hospitality 
of the chateau.” 

The baroness shrugged her shoulders ; 
but M. de Blanchelande took no notice 
of this, for he continued with much 
firmness : 

“ I did not know this young girl, and all 
this trouble has arisen by your own action. 
In welcoming Mile. Derville under my 
roof, to which you brought her, I have 
assumed moral obligations towards her, 


from which I will not depart. Since 
she has come here, she must remain !” 

“ Ah ! this is your conclusion ? Then 
I will leave, and take Yictorine !” 

“ Your good sense would not allow 
you to commit this freak, or to act so as 
to give rise to scandal. You have invited 
Jeanne to pass the vacation at Blanche- 
lande. The vacation ends in three 
weeks, or a month at farthest ! It must 
be ! I tell you , it must be ! You hear 
me! that Mile. Derville passes all this 
time with Yictorine — her friend ! She 
shall quit us at the end of that period, 
and not before. It is very good to think 
of our own, but it is necessary to think 
of others a little also; to consider, 
though not against them, their position 
and their fortune. Without giving her 
any notice; without her expecting it; 
without her having done anything to 
deserve it ; to throw a poor girl into the 
public streets — for, I ask you, where 
else you intend her to go ? — would be a 
truly mean action ; unworthy of you, of 
her, and of myself ; I will never consent 
to it.” 

“ Is this your final determination V* 

u It is my final determination ; it is 
the only one I can make, situated as I 
am. You will be convinced of this 
yourself, if you do me the honor to re- 
flect a little on the subject. Good-night, 
my dear.” 

The baron arose to leave, so as not to 
prolong uselessly an irritating discus- 
sion. If he left . his wife seriously dis- 
pleased, he was not much more calm 
himself. Against the act of sending 
Jeanne away, which he had been so 
resolutely required to do, he had risen 
up violently, contended with singular 
energy, and finally laid down his positive 
commands. Jeanne remained at Blanche- 
lande. But his wife took pleasure in 
turning and re-turning a burning iron in 
his wound. 

Jeanne was loved by another, and this 
one was handsome, young, rich, titled ; 
he had all that could win a youug girl's 
love. 

Perhaps she already loved him ! soon 
she surely must ! 

Ah ! the one whose heart has not 
been torn by the tortures of jealousy 
does not know the most terrible of all 
human sufferings 1 

The baron cursed the moment he had 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


8T 


first met Bois-Robert. It was he whom 
he wished to send away from Blanche- 
lande. Why had he come there ? 

Sometimes, after his tortures had been 
the most intense, he felt a kind of quiet 
happiness, which did not last long. He 
would assure himself that his wife had 
exaggerated things very much. A sym- 
pathetic feeling was not a passion. They 
could like each other without being in 
love. Maxence was a judicious young 
man, and would not renounce, for a simple 
love affair, all the advantages that an 
alliance with Victorine would bring him. 
But yet, soon judging others by himself, 
he would say it was impossible to see 
Jeanne without yielding to her beauty; 
and once loving her, to renounce her 
would be out of the question. He must 
then contend with Bois-Robert for her ; 
but without any hope, except to expose 
himself, as he distinctly understood, to 
be*despised as ridiculous, and branded 
as detestable. Then he knew not what 
to do, and his whole night was passed 
in undecided, perplexing thoughts. 

The next morning, Jeanne, who had 
retained her school habit of early rising, 
went into the garden to breathe the 
fresh balmy air. After a few turns on 
the terrace, which was overlooked by 
the back windows of the house, she 
walked, without thinking, towards the 
lake and English river. Following, 
thoughtfully, its devious course, soon 
she reached a little rustic bridge, whose 
balustrade was embroidered with ivy 
and festooned with honeysuckle, and 
seeming to coax her to enter. She ven- 
tured on it. When she reached the 
middle, she bent over the deep mur- 
muring water which ran beneath. What 
her thoughts were at this moment none 
could tell ; but she would not yield 
to them, for she said, in a low tone, 
while a shudder passed over her, “ It is 
not good for me to be here ; I must not 
look longer at this water — it tempts me !” 
And she rapidly crossed the rest of the 
bridge. A magnificent walk lay before 
her, shaded on either side by a range of 
acacia trees, whose young heads joined, 
forming a very bower of verdure. 

Jeanne loved this walk, where the 
blackbirds warbled and the redbreasts 
sang. It was her favorite ever since 
she had been at Blanchelande. It led, 
by a skilfully winding transition, from 


the garden to the park. The young 
girl was surprised at reaching the end 
— she had moved mechanically. Soon 
she saw, at some distance, the rustic 
bench where she had been seated so 
quietly on the morning when the Count 
de Bois-Robert appeared so suddenly 
before her. She stopped and reflected. 
How this one day had changed her entire 
life ! What deep traces it would leave 
on her existence ! What sensations of 
happiness it had given her, by revealing 
her to herself! 

But with so many joys, what sorrow- 
ful preoccupations, what secret uneasi- 
ness had this sudden, violent unfolding 
of a new sentiment, alas ! brought ! If 
this was truly love, how right had the 
dear mistresses of her life been when 
they told their young scholars “ That 
love was often a misfortune, and always 
a danger !” 

Whilst reflecting thus, she involunta- 
rily looked at the place where Maxence, 
as he passed, had broken the branches 
of the white thorn and privet. 

It was at the foot of this juniper tree 
he had stopped and taken off his hat 
with that chivalric grace that had 
charmed her. She recalled all his words. 
She heard again the polite phrases of 
excuse for surprising her, and involun- 
tarily breaking in on her retreat. 

She was provoked at herself for these 
persistent remembrances, and bitterly 
reproached herself with seeking to re- 
vive them by revisiting this spot. 

11 Ah !” said she, “ I am truly ashamed 
of myself ; I do not deserve any pity.” 

After this hard but sincere apostrophe, 
Jeanne rose to fly from the seductions 
that in the depths of her heart she had 
sought. She had only taken a few steps 
when, at a turn in the long massive 
walls which had shut in her view, she 
found herself face to face with M. de 
Bois-Robert. 

Accident alone had led to this truly 
unexpected meeting. They were both 
dumb with surprise. Jeanne paused in 
amazement, incapable of advancing or 
retiring, and could not find one word to 
say ; trembled, but was none the less 
fascinating. Maxence saw the young 
girl's trouble, and it touched his heart. 
He was not free from embarrassment, but 
he felt that silence would render their 
position still more perplexing to. both. 


88 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ Mademoiselle,” said he, standing a 
few steps away from Jeanne, “ pardon, 
I pray you, the happy chance that has 
permitted us to meet again. I have so 
many things to say to you, if you will 
he good enough to listen.” 

When Jeanne first saw the young 
count she became as red as her sash — 
now she was as white as her dress. She 
could not reply. 

“ If I dared,” said the young man, 
“ I would urge you to sit down.” 

“ But, sir, you see I am going home.” 

“ Only for a few moments. This op- 
portunity will not return. I may never 
find it again. Oh ! I implore you to 
listen !” 

His voice was more persuasive than 
his words. Jeanne yielded. Her heart 
fought for him against herself. It basely 
betrayed her. She allowed him to lead 
her to the bench, where she sat down. 
Maxence stood a few steps from her. 
He looked at her silently for a few mo- 
ments, as if wishing to engrave her 
features indelibly on his memory. 

She raised her eyes, and looked at 
him with her beautiful, clear, frank, 
sweet look, seeming to say, I have 
stayed at your desire. I am listening, 
and you are silent ! What have you to 
say ? 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Maxence, at 
last, in a low tone, and hesitating, “ if 
we were situated in the ordinary way 
in regard to each other; if you had 
any family ; I would not allow myself to 
speak as I feel, as if it was not the 
thing — but you are an orphan, alone in 
the world — mistress of your own des- 
tiny ! What you wish, that you can 
do. This is a great happiness — bought 
by a great misfortune.” 

Here M. de Bois-Robert paused, as if 
the last sentence had exhausted all his 
strength, and he was obliged to take 
breath before proceeding. 

“ But it seems to me, sir,” said Jeanne, 
softly, “ that you have endured the same 
misfortune, and that you have the same 
happiness.” 

“ Neither so happy nor so unfortu- 
nate. I have still my mother.” 

By the way Maxence pronounced 
these words, “ I have still my mother,” 
Jeanne saw that the ruling sentiment 
of his soul in regard to this mother was 
fear, more than affection, and if fear is 


the beginning of wisdom, it is not gene- 
rally the commencement of love. J eanne, 
of course, kept her reflections to herself. 

“ I must tell you all,” continued Max- 
ence, drawing near her, “ or my con- 
duct yesterday will be inexplicable to 
you.” 

“ I confess,” said Jeanne, in a low 
tone, “ it was rather incomprehensible.” 

“ Of course, of course ! Yesterday, 
when I saw you on this seat, my whole 
being rushed towards you. I felt the 
strongest, sweetest sensation of my life.” 

Just as I felt, thought the young 
girl, who listened with half-closed eyes, 
intent ears, head inclined, and beating 
heart, but silently fearing to interrupt 
him. 

“ You saw how joyfully I wandered 
near you through this beautiful park ! 
How happy I was walking by your side. 
Ah ! if I had dared to take your hand !” 

Jeanne looked for some moments *at 
the young man’s face, which was glow- 
ing with the complete happiness enjoyed 
only by those whose souls are raised to 
that degree of sublimity where adoration 
becomes ecstasy. 

“We reached the chateau, and I will 
never forget the charming collation of 
which you did me the honor. How 
good the bread was that your fingers 
touched ! I was under a charm, and 
would willingly have remained under 
the yoke your hands had thrown around 
me ! You had, however, the cruel cour- 
age to send me away when my chief 
desire was to remain by your side ; but 
I was forced to obey. I started — I tore 
across the country — I raced like a mad- 
man — I had a mind to stop every one 
I met, and exclaim to them, ‘ Ho you 
wish to see one happy man ? If you do, 
look at me !’ ” 

Moved, with beating heart, completely 
fascinated, Jeanne listened to these corn- 
fused, ardent words in which the deliri- 
ous love of this susceptible youth poured 
itself out. 

She crossed her hands on her knees, 
and bent her head slightly forward in an 
attitude of yielding grace and abandon- 
ment ; she betrayed her emotion only 
by her vivid color, her quick breath, the 
slight trembling of her beautiful arms, 
seen through her half-open sleeves ; 
but at this point in this very affecting 
recital, Jeanne, by an instinctive move- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


89 


ment of curiosity, turned to tlie young 
man as if to ask him, “ What then — 
continue if you please, and inform me 
what changed all that.” 

“ Oh ! you can never know,” con- 
tinued Maxence, whose voice suddenly 
trembled, “ what passed in my heart on 
reaching Pheasant’s Island, where all 
the guests of the baron were assembled, 
when this old friend of my father’s took 
me by the hand and presented me to 
his daughter !” 

“I do not see,” said Jeanne, in a 
low tone, “ why an introduction to such 
a sweet, lovely person as Mile, de 
Blanchelande could be so painful but 
she turned her head away. Her counte- 
nance, denying her words, proved that 
she understood perfectly. 

“ Well,” continued Bois-Robert, “ I 
have now said so much, I must tell you 
all ! When I saw you, mademoiselle, I 
supposed you were Mile, de Blanche- 
lande.” 

“ And this is why I pleased you ! 
You took me for her !” replied Mile. 
Derville, with a quick bitterness that 
came from her heart to her lips. 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, how badly you 
must think of me, if you judge me thus !” 
said Maxence, regarding the young girl 
with a deep, almost tearful look. “ If you 
only knew how bitterly wretched I am !” 

Jeanne remained silent. 

Maxence went on : — “ My mother — 
pardon her, mademoiselle, for she does 
not know you — my mother, on sending 
me here, informed me that the two fami- 
lies had arranged, a long time ago, to 
unite Victorine and myself. I was per- 
fectly free yesterday, and my greatest 
desire was to please my mother. Every 
one around me eulogized Mile, de 
Blanchelande. There were a thousand 
suitable reasons for the match, such as 
notaries and grandparents search for. My 
greatest desire was to find here a person 
who would render it easy for me to con- 
form to the wishes of my family. I saw 
you — I thought you were the one. 
Whilst my mistake endured I experi- 
enced such joy as would make heaven 
jealous. They gave me for a wife the 
very woman I would have selected above 
all others.” 

A declaration was never made with 
more truth and feeling, nor with a more 
communicative warmth ; and no woman 


had ever listened with more feeling, and 
received with more sadness. 

Jeanne could not doubt M. de Bois- 
Robert’s loyalty. This loyalty shone 
from his noble countenance, which God 
had not formed to deceive. Truth looked 
from his eyes. 

But, understanding a stern fate sepa- 
rated them, she wondered if he had the 
strength to conquer it, and the reply she 
made herself was not consoling. 

“ You may be slightly unhappy, but 
these feelings have so lately bloomed in 
your soul, their root cannot be very 
deep,” replied Jeanne, in a few moments. 
“ I .am told men easily forget, and very 
quickly, especially at your age. You will 
forget me !” 

Maxence shook his head emphatically, 
and tried to take Jeanne’s hand, which 
she would not permit. 

“ The plans you allude to are as satis- 
factory at Blanchelande as at Bois-Rob- 
ert. Too many people are interested not 
to perceive at once the obstacle, if it 
really exists, that would hinder their 
plans. They would wish to remove it. 
A very easy thing for them to do,” 
said she, with the proud dignity that 
circumstances fully justified. “ Alas ! 
I commence to feel how bitter it is to 
eat the bread of others. But believe me 
truly, it is not necessary to give me more 
than one hint ! The first sufficed ! and 
even that is useless. Mine, de Blanche- 
lande is no longer the same toward me ; 
Victorine is changed, or is commencing 
to change.” 

“And the baron?” asked Maxence, 
looking earnestly at the young girl. 

“The baron,” said Jeanne, slightly 
shrugging her shoulders, and without 
turning her eyes, “ I thought at first 
was very good to me ; but now I believe 
he is only good to himself. At any rate, 
I did not come here on M. de Blanchc- 
lande’s account, and it is not for him I 
would remain. I wish to go away.” 

“ To go away !” cried the count, with 
great eagerness. “ Go away ! Where, 
mademoiselle ?” 

“ I do not know, sir,” she replied, 
with exaltation, her eyes bright with 
unshed tears. “ I go where destiny may 
lead me, through the vast world.” 

“Alone? At your age? Oh, made- 
moiselle, you cannot mean that !” 

“ There are circumstances which 


90 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


cause old age to come quickly. Yester- 
day I was eighteen — to-morrow I shall 
be thirty ! God always does right !” 

“ Still there is no hurry ! I pray you 
to remain a few days longer at Blanche- 
lande.” 

“And why so, if you please ?” 

“ That we may be near each other, ” 
said the count, emboldened by degrees 
to take Jeanne’s hand almost against 
her will. 

“And then,” said the young girl, with 
a sad, graceful movement of the head, 
“ we must separate ! I must go, sir ! 
Believe me, I am certain of what I say 
— the sooner the better ! Ah ! the better 
it had been if we had never met !” 

“ Do not speak so ! Do not let me 
think you have no confidence in me ! I 
do not deserve that you should be so 
cruel ! Do not let us be at our age like 
the cold diplomatists who always doubt 
their first impulses because they are 
good ! Let us yield to the attraction 
we have for each other. I certainly for 
you ; you perhaps for me ! Oh ! I 
have never felt for any one such an ir- 
resistible attraction ! It costs to6 much 
for me to allow you to leave without 
doing all I can to prevent it.” 

“ That is to say, give severe shape to 
your existence — hitherto laughing, 
happy, easy, free from embarrassment 
and cares. Hold, sir ! I do not know 
life as the world has made it. I know 
still less of the world. I have only 
seen it through the iron gate of my 
boarding-school; but I seem to under- 
stand a little of it. You are moved now 
by generous thoughtless sympathy — per- 
haps involuntarily !” 

“ Ah ! mademoiselle ! involuntarily ! 
how can you speak so ?” 

“ Pardon me, sir ! but I speak as I 
ought to speak. You are acting under 
the influence of momentary passion !” 

“ Say rather of an adoration, which 
will endure for life !” 

“ When this passion,” said Jeanne, 
raising her head, “ has followed the 
course of ordinary human feelings, 
when it shall have given place to cold, 
calm reason, you will then see the 
error you have committed ; and what 
will be very terrible for me, you will 
accuse me with it.” 

“Oh, mademoiselle! Oh! Jeanne, 
my dear Jeanne ! how have you reached 


this cold analysis; this cruel experi- 
ence ?” 

“ Alas ! do you not know it has cost 
me dearly ?” replied Mile. Derville, 
drying her eyes with the back of her 
hand, to prevent the tears from running 
down her cheek. 

Maxence, much affected, tried to draw 
this pale charming head to him, with a 
sweet, almost fraternal manner. It was 
so innocent and affectionate ; but this, 
Jeanne’s dignity would not allow; and 
she quickly withdrew, seating herself 
with much agitation on the other end 
of the bench. 

“ If God had been good to me,” mur- 
mured she, “ he would have allowed me 
to die six weeks before I left St. Denis. 
Then in dying, I should have returned 
my soul to Him, still worthy of Him ; 
filled with beautiful dreams and noble 
illusions ; believing devoutly in pure 
generosity — in holy, unalterable, sacred 
friendship. Yes, I ought to have died 
then !” J eanne said this with a sorrow- 
ful enthusiasm, of which she was en- 
tirely unconscious. Her tears, no longer 
restrained, traced a wet burning ridge 
on her cheeks. 

“ Dear, dear child !” said Maxence, 
with a mixture of sweetness and au- 
thority. “ Granting that all that is true, 
there are many things also true, which 
you do not mention. There is love 
greater than friendship. Love, the 
only feeling that may be perfectly dis- 
interested ! Love which obeys neither 
considerations nor calculations ! Love 
which is its own reward ! Love that 
we find in the ruins of the world, for it 
is stronger than death ! Oh, doubt 
everything you wish, Jeanne, but do 
not doubt love !” 

The young man spoke in a tone of 
such perfect conviction, with such a 
deep, noble ardor, that Jeanne, who 
perhaps wished only to be persuaded, 
felt herself by degrees gained to a cause 
so well sustained. 

She still tried to raise some objec- 
tions ; but it was easy to see that they 
were for the honor of her principles, 
and that it would not be a hard task for 
a well-inspired orator to carry away 
these last excuses. 

“ Come, now, now, do not be 
naughty,” said Maxence, drawing near 
her, “ do not be so discouraged about 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


91 


the future. For though it is true, that 
to attain my desire, I must employ all 
my energy, and bring all my forces into 
play, not yielding in the least, all I 
ask of you, is to wait before judging 
me, until you have seen my actions. 
Until then have confidence in me, and 
in yourself. Oh, Jeanne, believe in 
life ! believe in happiness !’ 

Poor Jeanne asked nothing better 
than to have faith. It was very sweet 
to her to believe in Maxence above 
everything, and to rely entirely on him. 
Was he not now her only hope — her 
only refuge — her whole future ? 

“ God hears you,” said she, raising 
her beautiful eyes, still wet with tears, 
but full of courage ; and as if to make 
him understand better, the unity which 
now existed between them, and the 
growth of their common interest, she 
said : “ Do you not think we have been 
long enough together ?” 

“ Not too long !” 

“No, but long enough! I perceive 
a movement about the house. It is 
useless to give any new subject of irri- 
tation to people, who are already turned 
against us. Leave me, then, I beg.” 

“ I cannot refuse this first proof 
of my obedience. Farewell, mademoi- 
selle ! No — farewell to meet again, 
Jeanne !” 

Maxence arose, holding out his hand 
to Mile. Derville, who this time gave 
him hers. He shouldered his gun — 
for shooting had been the excuse for 
the morning ramble — and started to 
shoot the thrush, which on the outskirts 
of the neighboring woods, plundered the 
red berries of the mountain ash, and the 
blackberries of the junipers. As to 
Jeanne, she watched him a long time 
from the bench where he had been sit- 
ting, lost in a flood of overwhelming 
emotion, given up to entirely new feel- 
ings, which carried her out of herself, 
with an irresistible strength and power. 

“Well!” said she, with a mixed 
troubled joy ; “ I am loved ! I love ! It 
has come so quickly ! suddenly ! I 
scarcely perceived it myself! In truth, 
I do not know how it has happened — but 
he has such a good, loyal, chivalric air ; so 
young, in a century too where they say 
there is no more any youth ; and so sin- 
cere ! Oh, no ! I cannot doubt his love 
for me ! And I ! oh ! I love him also, 


I feel it with all my soul ! And now — 
what will happen ? Will he have the 
necessary courage and perseverance to 
resist the will — perhaps the tears — 
of others ? Will this love give a power 
to my life, or will it only increase my 
difficulties and complications ? Oh ! 
why cannot I yield, without these sad 
reflections, to this unexpected happi- 
ness ? Why can I not confide in the 
future ? After all ! he loves me and I 
love him ! That is all I know ! All I 
desire to know to-day !” 

Soon she returned home alone. Only 
to see her as she passed, and you would 
understand jthat a change had come over 
her. There was more assurance in her 
walk ; she felt no longer alone in life ; 
another took an intense interest in all that 
concerned her ; she could lean on him, 
if necessary; was it not the man’s part 
to sustain the woman and protect her ?. 
Let the baroness display again her im- 
pertinent patronizing manner, as last 
evening — what cared she ! Let Yicto- 
rine henceforward be ill-humored and 
capricious, she would quickly find con- 
solation in the idea that she was the 
loved one, the preferred and chosen. 

. As for the baron, she scarcely remem- 
bered his existence. 

Was she not now far beyond every- 
thing in this world ; above everything in 
this world except himself? 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

C HATEAU life was perfectly under- 
stood at Blanchelande. Until break- 
fast time all were perfectly free. The 
first repast was the first moment of the 
company’s meeting — it was then that 
community of life commenced — it was 
then, also, that the chief actors were in 
each other’s presence, as well as the su- 
pernumeraries of this little drama that 
we are relating. 

All those who, for one reason or ano- 
ther, had been engaged the night before 
watching M. de Bois-Robert and Mile. 
Derville, had resolved to observe them 
still more attentively to-day. Jeanne 
endured their scrutiny with a singularly 
easy and independent spirit. 

The baron was astonished at such un- 
looked-for self-possession, but did not 
suspect the cause. Mme. de Blanche- 


92 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


lancle, with more sagacity, as she was a 
woman, guessed all that passed in this 
young soul. She said to herself, “ that 
to be so assured and so calm, Jeanne 
must have seen Maxence ; that there was 
an understanding between them ; that 
the young man, fascinated by the charms 
and beauty of Mile. Derville and incapa- 
ble of resisting the strength of a first love, 
had revealed his soul and pledged his 
faith j that J eanne saw opening before her 
the enchanting and unlooked-for prospect 
of a marriage for love, with a young man, 
rich, titled and handsome. Was not this 
a hundred times better than she had 
dared to hope for ? She would marry 
the man that all the mothers wished to 
catch for their daughters, and all the 
daughters for themselves. And this 
marriage, such a frightful thing to think 
about ! She had snatched him from Vic- 
torine! Did not M. de Bois-Robert be- 
long in reality to Victorine? The two 
families, had they not planned this union 
long time ago? The trouble that the 
presence of the orphan brought into all 
these projects assumed, in her eyes, the 
character of an injury to some sacred 
rights ! 

Mile, de Blanchelande, whose mother 
had spoken to her the same morning, 
went to her friend’s room to have an ex- 
planation with her, which would not be 
free from difficulty, but which proved 
the frankness of her character and the 
brightness of a loyal correct nature. 

She wished to confess everything ; but 
no one was there to receive her confi- 
dence ; she found the nest empty ; the 
bird flown; and she soon learnt from a 
waiting-maid, who was rather the spy of 
the chateau, that Mile. Derville had gone 
to walk in the large park by the spruce 
trees, and that M. de Bois-Robert had 
followed a few moments afterwards. 

This revelation was a shock to Mile, 
de Blanchelande ; she felt a quick sor- 
row, a great irritation. This irritation 
showed itself in a pettish air towards 
Jeanne, finder other circumstances 
this would have caused our heroine 
great sorrow. Now she was completely 
indifferent — she had an armor of dia- 
monds around her heart which rendered 
her invulnerable. The brightness of 
the moon of friendship paled singularly 
before the rising sun of love ! 

The young count was closely scruti- 


nized. He had hardly entered the room 
when he found himself the centre of 
observation — spied and watched by all 
around. But if they spied him, he de- 
fied them ! Neither the lynx nor the 
Argus could discover anything ! 

Whilst in a studied false position, all 
that happiness which should- arise from 
the ties and intimacy of two beings who 
love, whose hearts long to open to each 
other, gives place to a feeling of uneasy 
and troubled embarrassment. Maxence 
was the one who suffered the most by this 
inevitable change. Hitherto his mind 
had been perfectly free from care. Hav- 
ing had nothing to conceal, he was very 
unfamiliar with the ruses of the diplo- 
matic world. He was constrained by 
this new role, which forced him to act 
a part. His burning feelings of a first 
love must be hidden. He feared so 
much that he overshot the mark, and 
treated Jeanne with a reserve which all 
said was unnatural. 

They noticed the young people did 
not speak to each other. There must 
be an understanding between them. As 
to Jeanne, strong in the right and loyalty 
of her feelings, full of the confidence 
natural to young souls who have not yet 
experienced the duplicity of human na- 
ture, she understood her friend, and was 
far from being offended at this indiffer- 
ence, and bore his apparent coldness 
with an imperturbable serenity. 

All felt, however, that a crisis was at 
hand — only all desired to arrange it to 
suit themselves. Mme. de Blanchelande 
wished to find some means of sending 
Jeanne away, without causing her hus- 
band to take violently and openly the 
young girl’s part. 

The baron wished that Maxence would 
openly demand of him Victorine’s hand, 
or else leave the chateau, where his pre- 
sence caused only trouble and regret. 
But he could not find the way to lead 
the count quietly, without scandal, to do 
as he desired. On no account in the 
world would he take on his own head 
the responsibility of a dangerous, com- 
promising initiative. 

He felt he could not risk a rupture 
without lowering himself in the eyes of 
his guests, and becoming the laughing- 
stock and talk of the whole province. 

Jeanne felt the unpleasantness of her 
precarious existence more strongly than 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


93 


ever. If she had the least personal in- 
dependence, if she could have been cer- 
tain of finding a shelter anywhere in 
which she could have awaited the future 
Maxen ce wished to arrange for them, 
she would have withdrawn at once from 
this detestable house. But where could 
she go now ? The only little corner of 
the earth she owned — the last scrap of 
the maternal inheritance — was not at 
her disposal. The Eosery was rented, 
and the whole world was for her a soli- 
tary desert. Maxence, however, judged 
things well enough to see that this diffi- 
cult question could not be solved at 
Blanchelande, but at Bois-Robert. It 
was there only that he could settle it; 
so he decided to return at once. 

A little country boy, easily bribed, 
carried Jeanne a letter at five in the 
morning, which Maxence had written the 
night before. He informed the baron, 
by a note, in a few words, that he was 
summoned home by his mother’s unex- 
pected illness. 

“ My faith !” said Yictorine’s father, 
making a ball of the little note his ser- 
vant had brought him ; “ if this is not 
true, it is very well invented ! He has 
gone ! that is all I can desire at this 
moment. A good journey to him ! may 
he return when I send for him ! I will 
easily find a son-in-law more to my taste.” 

Mme. de Blanchelande was not so 
easily satisfied as her husband ; she sus- 
pected a ruse of the enemy, in this sud- 
den and unexpected flight, without 
exactly seeing the young man’s real in- 
tentions; but she thought it best to 
forewarn Maxence’s mother, whose prin- 
ciples and designs she well understood ; 
she knew her to be a strong-minded 
woman, incapable of yielding to a ro- 
mantic inspiration ; she placed, there- 
fore, in her hands, the easy task of 
seeing that the sacred plight of the two 
families be fulfilled. Jeanne alone knew 
the truth. How could he now keep a 
secret from her ? The long letter he 
sent her, confirmed what he said in bid- 
ding her farewell the evening before. 

He renewed all his assertions in the 
strongest terms ; assured her of his un- 
alterable attachment ; explained that 
the complications which surrounded him 
were increased by his remaining at 
Blanchelande. He was going to see his 
mother ; it was only near her, in the 


confidence and chat of common, intimate 
life, that he could induce her to change 
her former projects. He knew she was 
very tenacious, and that it would need 
all his eloquence to gain her consent. 
Jeanne must feel assured he would leave 
no stone unturned to attain this end; 
her guarantee of this, was the love of 
one who henceforward would know no 
happiness without her. 

From the first line to the last, the 
letter was exactly what it should be, the 
true language of a violently-enamored 
heart. 

Jeanne devoured it with a passionate 
eagerness, and reread it twenty times in 
order to enjoy the charm the better. 
Nevertheless, by dint of this incessant 
analysis, the young girl saw at last that 
the warmth of these protestations did 
not disguise his irresolution. There was 
in this letter no definitely-arranged pro- 
ject for the future, no plan of conduct. 
In a word, nothing which could direct 
her course in life. If Maxence did not 
decide promptly, if he did not gain, in 
some way, his mother’s consent, Jeanne 
saw she was condemned to more cruel 
uncertainties than any she had yet ex- 
perienced. She fell into the anguish of 
doubt, to which were added the tortures 
of absence, an entirely new feeling to 
her. Now that he was no longer there, 
all her past joys turned to sorrows. She 
counted the days ; Maxence did not re- 
turn ; no one spoke of him or his mo- 
ther; this silence augured badly; Jeanne 
hoped a little and feared a great deal. 

She would have hoped less and feared 
more if she had known the whole truth. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

T HE return of Maxence to Bois- 
Robert, had caused a violent scene 
between the mother and the son. The 
young count held his head very high, as 
falsely brave ones generally do,, and 
feigned, when he touched the main 
question, an assurance and self-con- 
fidence he was far from having. After 
speaking of Mile. Jeanne Derville to 
his mother with a very sincere real 
enthusiasm (which however was received 
coldly enough by this wise individual), 
he declared his intention of marrying, 
as an irrevocably settled affair, announ- 


94 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


ced to his mother with a respectful 
deference ; as if it were not at all neces- 
sary to consult, or still less to request 
her permission. 

This cavalier manner in her son, who 
had until now been so submissive, was 
entirely unexpected, and caused her a 
sudden disagreable surprise. Eh ! what ! 
thought she, looking at Maxence again 
and again, my son must have been 
changed during the journey. I should 
like to know to whom I am indebted for 
this prodigy. 

Then in a tone whose extreme sweet- 
ness frightened the young man, for he 
knew that his mother hid the most in- 
domitable will under the most apparent- 
ly soft and languishing manner : 

“ I do not understand exactly, my 
dear child, what you are saying to me. 
You have confused and disarranged my 
ideas. I know you ought to get married : 
this is the reason I sent you to Blanche- 
lande to meet your intended, little Vic- 
torine ! Why then dost thou speak to 
me of a young lady named Jeanne ? Has 
thy head, unfortunately never very 
strong, become deranged ?” 

“ No, mother. I believe, on the con- 
trary, that I have never been more 
decided in my wishes.” 

“ Then ! what do you tell me V ’ 

“ This marriage with Victorine you 
must see is an old story .” 

“ Ah ! Why, if you please ?” 

“Because I do not love Yictorine, 
and because I love another.” 

“Yes, I know — Mile. Jeanne.” 

“ Mile. Jeanne Derville.” 

“Very well, Mile. Derville, if you 
like ! But you forget that Mile, de Blan- 
chelande has been your intended for 
many years.” 

“ For so long a time that it is the 
1 past future Y” replied Maxence, without 
seeing how unfortunately ill-timed was 
this bad jest. 

“She is the only person I will receive 
as my daughter-in-law. I respect my 
engagement. Your father and I have 
plighted our word with M. de Blanche- 
lande and there is no withdrawal.” 

“ On the contrary it must be retracted 
and at once. You know well, mother, 
that we marry to please ourselves, not 
others.” , 

“Undoubtedly; yet believe me, it is 
also for your sake that I desire to marry 


you. It is my right to choose you a 
wife ; and this wife shall be Mile, de 
Blanchelande.” 

Mme. de Bois-Robert pronounced 
•these last words with a firmness that 
made her son shudder. 

“ But, my mother, since I love Mile. 
Derville — ” said he, with an accent of 
despair. 

“ Keep quiet on that subject. You 
think you love her, but you do not love 
her ! Her pretty piquant face may have 
inspired thee with a fancy, a taste, a 
something, which will vanish as quickly 
as it came; but love, no, no! Love 
spreads deeper roots in our souls; she 
whom thou wilt love with the right love 
— the love which comes with marriage, 
which will insure the happiness of a life- 
time — she whom thy father and I have 
destined for thee — is Mile, de Blanche- 
lande.” 

Maxence silently shook his head. 

“ He is more obstinate than I sup- 
posed. Well, it will be difficult; but I 
will succeed, because I wish to succeed. 
To will is to do.” 

Then turning to her son : “ My dar- 
ling, I see with sorrow that thou art car- 
ried away in a bad cause, and if I leave 
thee to thyself thou wilt be lost.” 

“ Oh, mother ! to be happy with the 
woman whom one loves ; whom one has 
made his wife and the mother of his 
children ; you call that being lost !” 

The countess did not reply to this sor- 
rowful explanation. She pretended not 
to hear it. 

“ Happily,” continued she, “ you can- 
not carry out your foolish intentions ; 
our laws hinder you from working all this 
evil on yourself. Thou art a minor in 
regard to thy marriage till twenty-three 
years old ; you must wait two years yet, 
before you will have the right to ask, 
through a notary, for my counsel (which 
you do not intend to follow). It will be 
but a respectful pretence, by which you 
will give the most fatal blow to the real re- 
spect thou owest me. But till then, thank 
God ! you will have time to reflect.” 

“ Oh, I have reflected enough !” said 
the young man, raising his head, “only 
I shall suffer two years, because you will 
it. Should I have expected that of you, 
mother ? My resolution will not change 
in two years ; I will ask you then, what 
I ask you now.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


95 


11 1 argue better of thy good sense and 
wisdom. Still if it pleases thee to com- 
mit this folly, then I cannot hinder thee. 
It will not be my fault. I shall regret 
it, but without remorse ; only as 1 do 
not intend to reward thy passions, I 
forewarn thee that if thou shouldst 
marry against my will, my fortune will 
not be yours ; you will be forced to rely 
on your own resources, which are slight 
enough. I forewarn thee, if thou dost 
not know it. Thy father has left thee 
nothing but his name; thou wilt have 
that.” 

“ I have strength and will gladly work 
for her,” replied Maxence. 

“ I should like very well to see what 
you can do,” said the countess, shrug- 
ging her shoulders contemptuously. 
“ That is, however, what the future will 
show.” 

But Maxence was perfectly sincere in 
the good faith of youth, in the candor 
and truthfulness of a first love. 

The prospects of a contest with life 
diminished his trouble, and did not in 
the least frighten him. He felt a pure, 
exalted joy, mixed with a noble pride, 
at the idea of working for the woman 
of his heart, and at the feeling that this 
woman would owe to his exertions the 
independence and comforts of her life. 

These are pleasures the rich can never 
know, when to make the happiness of 
those we love it is only necessary to gain 
a small portion of the fortune amassed 
by others. 

What now troubled Bois-Robert was 
the thought of these two long dreary 
years. 

What could Jeanne do ? And what 
could he do for her during this time ? 
Like all those who are born in luxury 
and wealth, and have not felt the rude 
trials and imperative necessities of a hard 
life, Maxence had never yet tested the 
bitter fruits of experience, and had very 
little practical knowledge of any sort. 
His mother was indeed not mistaken in 
her belief of his incapability to make a 
living. At this time it was only too 
true. 

This conviction was soon forced on 
him. The courageous but useless efforts 
he had made to resist the maternal will 
was followed by a disheartening, apa- 
thetic languor. It seemed as if he had 
already forgotten that the fate of an- 


other rested on his hands — that it was 
not only of his own iuture he must now 
reflect. After his sudden flight, which 
he now regretted, he felt he could not 
return to the Chateau de Blanchelande ; 
and Blanchelande held his whole heart. 
A riiore enterprising man, one more 
used to the little ruses so necessary in 
love and war, would have found a thou- 
sand ways to gain over an Abigail or 
bribe a valet. It was only the question 
of a few louis, and he could have con- 
ceded a plan of correspondence with 
Mile. Derville. The honorable purpose 
of his heart would have justified this ; 
and by an exchange of affectionate 
letters he would have reanimated the 
courage and strengthened the resolution 
of his now sad friend. 

This was not a useless care. He 
thought of it, but dared not! He did 
more! He did worse! Judging that 
while he was separated from Jeanne, 
that distance was of no consequence 
whether it was three hundred or five 
hundred miles, the separation was the 
same. He consented to escort his mother 
to Italy, who was ordered by a com- 
plaisant doctor to spend three or four 
months in the climate of Naples. Cruel 
as this departure was for Jeanne, a cer- 
tain event rendered it still more bitter. 
They had taken care to inform her in, 
casual conversation that the Blanche- 
landes were also going to Italy, and that 
the young people would meet among the 
Alps. 

Jeanne thought she would not have 
suffered so much if they had stabbed 
her with a poignard ! From this mo- 
ment she felt the bitter tortures of 
jealousy, the most cruel tortures a 
young enamored soul can experience. 
During the first few days she watched 
with feverish impatience for a letter, a 
token, a word, a signal from Maxence. 
Must he not feel how much she needed 
reassurance, encouragement, and conso- 
lation ? Nothing came ! He had then 
forgotten her ! She would never see 
him again ! All was ended for her ! 
Thus must close the first chapter of this 
book of life that she had thought so 
beautiful, a>nd whose pages would be 
an entire blank, excepting these first 
few She felt no longer able to contend 
against the coldness of Victorine or the 
acrimony of the baroness. Her love 


96 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


killed her pride. Living at Blanche- 
lande soon became intolerable to her. 
She determined to leave before her 
hosts should dismiss her — she did not 
desire they should aid her departure — 
she had endured all she was able — she 
informed the baron of her intentions. 
Of all the family, he had shown himself 
her best friend. 

Maxence’s presence in the chateau 
had singularly and dangerously excited 
him, but after the young count had left 
him complete master of the field, he 
was much calmer and endurable. He 
had carefully suppressed his over-senti- 
mental wishes, and if he had not entirely 
extinguished his desire in the depths of 
his heart, he had at least the prudence 
to postpone indefinitely the realization 
of his hopes. 

The news of her departure caused 
Tiim much emotion, which Jeanne could 
not help noticing ; she had become very 
•observing. The lessons of her life had 
cost her so dear that she could but 
profit by them. One morning, on find- 
ing her alone, he said : 

“ If these ladies go to Italy, you may 
rest assured that I will remain in 
France.” 

Whilst speaking thus, he looked at- 
tentively at her, to see what effect his 
words would produce. 

Jeanne indifferently shrugged her 
shoulders, and her countenance was as 
quiet as her lips. 

“ In a few days,” continued the baron, 
• a the chateau, now so lively, will be 
mournful and deserted. You inform me 
of your determination to leave it. I re- 
gret this, but I dare not urge you to 
remain longer at present.” 

“ You are right, sir; I have remained 
'here already too long.” 

u Is this a reproach, mademoiselle ?” 

tl If it is, sir, it is addressed to my- 
rself alone, for no one has detained me 
here, and several would have been de- 
lighted to see me depart.” 

“ It is not of me you thus speak ?” 

“ No !” replied Jeanne, with an em- 
phasis which could not allow the baron 
to doubt the truth of her words for one 
moment, “ No ! it is - not of you !” 

This emboldened him a little. He 
required some such aid, for he found 
what he still had to say to Mile. Der- 
ville presented not a few difficulties. 


iC As for me,” continued he in a low 
tone, “ I tell you now, I am not going 
away ; nothing calls me to Italy — and, 
permit me to tell you — all retains me in 
France.” 

He looked again at Jeanne, who did 
not look at him, but she felt, neverthe- 
less, through her lowered eyelids, that 
two burning eyes were fixed upon her, 
and she felt a disagreeable sensation of 
uneasiness and trouble. 

The baron feigned not to perceive 
this impression, and continued : 

“ I am not susceptible of a fickle sen- 
timent, but when I have once given my 
affection it will last forever; I could not 
free myself, even if I wished. It is part 
of me; it is my life.” 

Jeanne did not reply, but she raised 
her eyes to the baron, as if beseeching 
him to have pity, and praying him not 
to speak such words as she ought not to 
hear. 

“ This affection, mademoiselle,” con- 
tinued the baron, “ I know no one more 
worthy of inspiring than yourself.” 

“ You are too good, sir,” murmured 
Jeanne. 

“ Accept, then, in gpod faith, the lit- 
tle services you need, and that I am so 
happy to render you; you will thus 
prove you do not judge pie unworthy of 
your friendship.” 

“ That, sir, you know is utterly im- 
possible !” said Mile. Derville, with sad 
dignity. “ I have no more right to ac- 
cept, than you have to offer them.” 

u I avow these are scruples that I do 
not comprehend. You have an exag- 
gerated delicacy which is very honorable, 
and that I appreciate, but which is use- 
less between us, and which can only 
afflict us both !” 

“ What do you wish ? Life is thus made, 
we cannot change it. You have no call 
to serve me, and I can do nothing in re- 
turn. Yictorine knows as much as I 
do, and you have neither nieces nor 
cousins whom I can teach ; this, as you 
are aware of, monsieur le baron, is the 
only thing Lam good for.” 

“ Listen, mademoiselle,” replied M. de 
Blanchelande, with great gravity, u you 
are an intelligent person, and one can 
tell you everything, because you under- 
stand everything. I have not the calls 
upon you to which you allude, but allow 
me to say, I have others.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


97 


“ I am not acquainted with them, sir ” 

“ It is because you do not wish to 
know them/’ replied M. de Blanchelande, 
with more energy than he had yet 
spoken. 

“ What are they, then, sir?” 

“ Those my affection for you gives me, 
Jeanne.” 

“ Your affection for me, sir,” replied 
the young girl, very decidedly, “your 
affection is not, cannot be, as you know 
perfectly well (notwithstanding my sex, 
I declare to you), of that kind which 
would permit the services to which I 
now perfectly understand your allu- 
sions.” 

“ A true affection has every right.” 

“ But I have no right to this affec- 
tion.” 

“ Do not be so cruel and unjust,” con- 
tinued M. de Blanchelande, with emotion ; 
“you cannot yourself be blind to many 
things. I am not happy, my dear child. 
For a long time, disagreements that we 
have carefully hid from the world, have 
separated Mme. de Blanchelande and 
myself. The influence she gains day by 
day over Victorine, weans from me by 
degrees my daughter’s heart; soon I 
will be entirely alone in the world.” 

“Victorine is young and good; you 
can win her back again.” 

“ No, it is too late already ! Still, I 
do not believe I am so old as to be en- 
tirely cut off from all affection. What 
I cannot find in my family, why should 
I not seek for elsewhere ? Why should 
I not ask it from you, Jeanne — from 
you, who are not much happier than 
myself? We two unfortunates can thus 
console each other.” 

Jeanne became still paler, her hands 
trembled slightly, her heart beat vio- 
lently ; but she did not speak. 

The baron, encouraged by this silence, 
continued : “ Yes, Jeanne, I place on 
you all the affection with which my 
heart is filled. On you, henceforth, 
rests the hope of my life. That which 
neither my wife nor daughter desire, 
will be yours. Oh ! do not deceive 
yourself! I do not ask you to love me 
as I love you. I feel that is impossible. 

I only ask you to allow me to love you. 
To love ! This is not a sufficiently 
strong expression — for my feelings 
towards you resemble adoration more 
than love; it is so pure, so intense. It 


already absorbs my whole soul. It fills 
my life up again. You will be the 
realization of all my desires, as you are 
the object of all my thoughts.” 

Jeanne dried some big drops of per- 
spiration on her forehead, but still did 
not open her lips. 

“ Believe me, dear child,” continued 
M. de Blanchelande, “ it is only at my 
age that one knows how to love. The 
love of young men is only one of the 
thousand distractions of their existence. 
With us it is life itself. Destiny has 
been hard for you, until now, my poor 
Jeanne; you are an orphan, with none 
to lean upon. Alone in the world — 
given up as a prey to the wicked, sel- 
fish, and hard-hearted; but you have 
met me. We must change all that. It 
will be my mission to repair all the 
wrongs destiny has shown you. What 
she has taken from you, I will return to 
you. What she has not given you, you 
will find in me. You will want for 
nothing. Your wishes will be fulfilled 
before they arelialf formed. I wish to 
place you where you belong. You are 
not made to be subjected to obscure and 
hard work, given up to a precarious 
fortune. This ought not to be, I will 
not allow it to be.” The Baron de 
Blanchelande was inspired by his own 
words — he arose and tried to take Mile. 
Derville’s hand. 

This hand Jeanne withdrew, without 
affected prudery or ridiculous precipita- 
tion, but with unmistakeable firmness. 
Then raising her limpid eyes, which had 
a proud, mournful expression, and in 
which shone the celestial ray of her 
frank, honest nature, she said : “ Mon- 
sieur le Baron, of all the trials I have 
experienced under your roof, this is the 
most cruel, for humiliation is added to 
it. Other trials of this nature may be 
reserved for me, in the course of the 
desolate life you have pictured; but 
they will come to me from those who 
do not know me so well as you do ; and 
who will not know how little I deserve 
them. I have endured, uncomplainingly, 
more than one injustice in your house. 
Your last words drive me away from it. 
You must see that we can never meet 
again. Will you be good enough to 
give orders, that I may be taken to the 
nearest station. I will not remain here 
another hour.” 


98 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


The baron was dumbfounded. 

Jeanne’s calmness, during the whole 
discourse, had prevented him from sus- 
pecting such a denouement. He tried 
to reply. The young girl would not 
give h mi time. 

“ I wish to set out as soon as possi- 
ble,” continued she, “ and I hoped you 
would be willing to avoid giving me the 
trouble of seeking the intervention of 
Mme. de Blanchelande.” And without 
another word, cold, upright, and with 
implacable resolution, she passed before 
Victorine’s father, who dared not de- 
tain her. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A N hour later, without seeing again 
the baron, and after exchanging 
cold enough adieus with Mme. de 
Blanchelande, Jeanne was getting into 
the carriage, when Yictorine, seeing she 
had nothing more to fear from the one 
who, after being so long her friend, had 
suddenly become her rival, felt a return 
of all her old affection. 

“I am truly unhappy,” said she to 
Jeanne, “to see you leave thus, without 
some assured position. But it seems as 
if ordinary life resembles a boarding- 
school; one cannot have things as they 
desire.” 

“ I know that, well.” 

“ Where do you intend going ?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ What will become of you ?” 

“ I am still ignorant of that.” 

“ If we can be of service to you ?” 

“ That is now an impossibility.” 

“You reply coldly to me.” 

“ How have you spoken to me for the 
last week ?” 

“ It is true ! Perhaps we have pained 
you.” 

“ Perhaps !” replied Jeanne, bitterly. 
“ Well, be better than we have been. 
Forget the evil, and remember only the 
good. Jeanne, there has been one un- 
happy month in our intercourse, but 
there have been five good years.” 

“ I know that well. It would have 
been more highly prized if I had left 
here six weeks ago. I have lived too 
long already. Farewell.” 

The carriage was at the foot of the 
stone steps. Mile. Derville got in — the 


coachman took the reins, and the horses 
started. 

“ Alone, all alone in the world ?” said 
Jeanne, hiding her face in her hands, 
as the carriage passed through the prin- 
cipal gateway. 

She reviewed the events of the last 
month, and lived over again those weeks 
of her existence, which she found very 
sad. 

Only one thing could have consoled 
her; the thoughts of Maxence, and the 
glowing future of tenderness and of 
love that his remembrance should have 
called before her. But the cruel un- 
certainty in which he had left her since 
his departure ; this prospect of a jour- 
ney to Italy, to which he had so easily 
consented ; this rendezvous of the two 
families — a certain preliminary to a mar- 
riage arrangement — would not allow her 
to^ yield to these illusions. 

The truth appeared implacably evi- 
dent to her eyes; and the truth but an 
unceasing struggle, without mercy, in 
the midst of difficulties of an unknown 
character ; after a debut which had 
been only a cruel deception. 

In the depths of misfortunes, we 
sometimes feel, as the English poet so 
well expresses, — “ The luxury of love.” 

Jeanne sank in the corner of the car- 
riage, and softly, without convulsions or 
sobs, allowed her tears to flow like two 
rivers starting from two equal sources. 

But the carriage, which rolled over 
the smooth road like a rocking cradle, 
suddenly stopped, and the jostle caused 
Jeanne quickly to raise her head. The 
baron was at the carriage door, which 
he had already opened. 

Jeanne wished to prevent his entrance, 
but he jumped in as quick as a flash, 
and slammed to the door. Was this a 
signal ? Who can say ? but the coach- 
man, as if he had received his orders 
beforehand, whipped up his horses, and 
they started like an arrow. Jeanne and 
M. de Blanchelande were thus seated 
side by side. 

There was on the face of the colonel’s 
daughter an expression of such proud 
indignation and determination, that one 
glance at her would suffice to make the 
boldest and most audacious perfectly 
respectful. 

Let us hasten to add that the baron 
did not range in this category of male- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


99 


factors. If nevertheless he had obeyed 
some bad inspiration, in thus placing 
himself in Mile. Derville’s path, the 
sight of her red swollen eyes, her cheeks 
still wet with her burning tears, her 
breast heaving with suppressed sobs, 
would have quickly inspired another 
state of feeling. 

“ Goodness, mademoiselle ! what is 
the matter with you ?” asked he, with a 
most deferential manner. 

“ What is the matter with me ! what 
is the matter with me !” replied Jeanne, 
with bitterness in her voice and fierce- 
ness in its tones. “ You dare to ask 
what is the matter with me ? Well, 
sir ? I am indignant with your odious 
persecution ! Ah ! I see well, one must 
pay dearly for all your hospitality, for 
your carriage as well as your house ! I 
regret not having thought of this before ; 
for rather than submit to it, I would 
have borrowed a cart from your poorest 
peasant; and if their fears of you 
caused them to refuse, leaving you my 
small amount of baggage, and carrying 
from your chateau nothing but my 
honor, I would have gone straight before 
me by the roads.” 

“ Oh ! you hate me then, intensely,” 
said the baron, in a mournful tone. 

“ No !” replied Jeanne, and her look 
was more expressive than her words. 
“ No, it is not hate I feel towards you !” 

M. de Blanchelande feared this fright- 
ful state of excitement. He would have 
given worlds to be able to soothe her, 
but he knew not how. To quit her per- 
haps would do it ; but that he did not 
wish to do at present. He left the seat 
by her side and sat opposite to her. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said then, “if I 
have really lost the right to address any- 
thing but your good sense, allow me at 
least to appeal to that. I believe I have 
not merited the great wrath you have 
shown me this morning. 

“ You have misunderstood me. I see 
I have inspired you with a most unjus- 
tifiable terror. I am a man, and I have 
the weaknesses of a man. Still I am not 
a monster, and you must not make me 
out more horrible than I really am. You 
are perfectly at home here, since you are 
in my carriage. If my words unhap- 
pily do not reassure you, you have only 
to speak the word, and I will get out.” 

“ It would have been much better 


if you had never got in,” murmured 
Jeanne. 

“ She is without pity,” said the baron 
to himself. “ She has not a woman’s 
heart.” And he added aloud — 

“ You are young, mademoiselle ; but 
there are some things you must not de- 
ceive yourself about. It is possible I 
have given too much force to the service 
I desire to render you — perhaps I have 
displayed too much ardor in expressing 
the sincere interest I feel for you. You 
see that I accuse and do not defend my- 
self. But it seems that such a fault de- 
serves some slight indulgence from the 
one who has caused me to commit it. 
This indulgence you have not deigned 
to accord me ; but when you were leav- 
ing me, probably for ever, I have not 
been able to resign myself to your re- 
sentment, allowing you to carry away 
such a false, unjust idea of me. Most 
likely we will never meet again. This 
is what you desire. I am deeply afflicted 
on the contrary, without flattering myself 
that your movements will be in the least 
altered by my regrets. My illusion does 
not extend so far as that ; but I have at 
least the right to beg that you will not 
carry into your new unknown life these 
unkind remembrances of me; and that 
later — calmly, alone — when I am no 
longer near you, you will reflect on all 
that has passed between us — you will 
then appreciate more justly my conduct 
and intentions. This is all I ask of you, 
mademoiselle. Can you refuse me this ?” 

There was such an apparent frankness 
in Monsieur de Blanchelande’s words 
that Jeanne felt she could no longer 
doubt him. 

She was still young. Personal suffer- 
ing had not yet had time to harden her 
against the sorrows of others. The boun- 
teous sources of sympathy were not yet 
dried up in her beautiful and generous 
soul. Her nerves soon became quiet, and 
little by little her anger was appeased. 

The baron saw he had gained ground, 
but he was too cunning to try to profit 
immediately by his advantages, and to 
risk by an untimely vivacity, the com- 
promising of his success before it was 
assured to him. 

“ Will we not,” said he, softly, to 
Jeanne, “will we not, mademoiselle, 
separate without resentment, without 
bitterness, almost like friends ?” 


100 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“I am not born to hate,” said Mile. 
Derville, with a slight movement of her 
head. “You have nothing to fear from 
me; hut as you have just said, this 
is all you can ask, let us separate at 
once.” 

“Very well, we will then part,” re- 
plied M. de Blanchelande, with a shade 
of melancholy resignation. 

He made a movement as if to leave, 
but he had such an unhappy air that 
Mile. Derville, whose heart could not 
remain long without pity, felt forced to 
place her hand in the hand he held out. 

“ Thanks,” said the baron, who kept 
the little hand in his much longer than 
was necessary, and ended by carrying 
it to his lips. 

Jeanne raised her head and suddenly 
became as white as marble. Her eyes 
met those of a young man on horse- 
back passing the carriage. 

The soft road had deadened the noise 
of his approach, and thus he had sur- 
prised them. 

Jeanne, seeing the new comer, with- 
drew or rather snatched her hand from 
the baron, and hid her face, stifling a 
cry of anguish. 

She had recognised the long-expected 
one, whom she believed she would 
never see again. The Count de Bois- 
Bobert ! 

Maxence, after consenting, out of 
weariness, to this Italian journey, thus 
wrestled from his weakness by the 
maternal will, had felt at last that he 
could not leave without again seeing 
Mile. Derville, without at least saying 
good-bye, without assuring her of his 
constancy, without forming, with her, 
their future plans. 

He was resolved, at all hazards, to 
obtain an interview with her, in the en- 
virons of Blanchelande. Gold renders 
everything possible, and the young man 
knew how to purchase the needed ser- 
vice. There was but one reproach to 
this step — it was taken too late, and she 
who was the object of it had suffered 
too much. 

The count did not wish to go to the 
chateau ; he intended to linger about till 
he found some means of communicating 
with Jeanne. He felt the most intense 
desire to see her again ; as his mother, 
with an intention more easy to under- 
stand than to justify, had risked some 


slighting insinuations in regard to the 
baron’s devotions to the one she disdain- 
fully denominated as “ the governess.” 
This little piece of gratuitous spite did 
not produce the desired effect. It had 
increased Maxence’s feelings of love by 
his jealousy, and hastened his determina- 
tion. When he left the breakfast-table 
at which Mme. de Bois-Robert had made 
this unfortunate little campaign, he put 
1 his spurs into Ferragus’s side, and was 
hastening at full speed to Blanchelande. 
At a turn of the road he met the baron’s 
carriage, so that he could not possibly 
avoid it, even if his surprise had per- 
mitted him to think of doing so. A 
glance into the carriage showed him 
Victorine’s father kissing the hand of 
Mile. Derville. Did not this act alone 
too evidently confirm the suspicions his 
mother had endeavored to plant in his 
heart ? 

Immovable on his horse — riveted to 
the ground, he seemed at this moment a 
living statue — he could not take his eyes 
off of Jeanne’s face; of Jeanne, filled 
with sorrow, bordering on terror, at see- 
ing him. 

The precipitation alone, with which 
Mile. Derville had withdrawn her hand 
on seeing Maxence, had given a guilty 
appearance to an action, in reality so 
perfectly innocent and so justifiable by 
all the circumstances. But — but there 
are moments when one does not reason ; 
when one cannot reason — it is when 
passion alone reigns in and guides us. 

Maxence deceived in his conclusions 
— as many others, alas ! would have been 
in his place — felt cross his mind a fright- 
ful suspicion, which soon changed into 
a certainty ; a false certainty, founded 
on a mistake, but which was none the 
less cruel. Indignation and scorn spread 
suddenly over his beautiful and noble 
features, which seemed made only to ex- 
press sweet sentiments and the over- 
flowing of a happy soul. A bitter sar- 
donic smile crossed his lips, and then as 
if he could endure such a sight no 
longer, without seeming to remark the 
despairing movements of Jeanne, who 
extended her two hands to him as if 
throwing herself entirely on him, he 
spurred his horse furiously. Ferragus, 
surprised by this violent treatment, gave 
two bounds forwards, and soon was tear- 
ing across the fields. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


101 


“ Oh, go away at once, sir ! Oh, my 
God ! for pity’s sake, leave me, sir !” said 
Jeanne to the baron, almost out of her 
senses, and seeing the most fearful re- 
sults from this fatal meeting. 

“ Yes, yes, directly ! I am going !” 
said M. de Blanchelande, annoyed to 
the greatest extent, and ordering the 
coachman to stop. 

“ It is all your fault ! All that is your 
fault !” continued Jeanne, whose despair 
rendered her an object of pity- “ Why 
did you come ? Why did you not leave 
me when I urged you to do so? You 
have then sworn to ruin me ! Ah ! 
this is the last blow ! I only needed 
this one to complete my misfortunes !” 
In the exasperation of her unthinking 
sorrow, forgetting the reserve and dis- 
cretion which was so natural to her, she 
did not dream of surrounding her feel- 
ings with mystery, which is their greatest 
charm, in souls as delicate and chaste as 
hers. 

“ How she loves him !” said M. de 
Blanchelande to himself, with bitter 
jealousy. “ Those young ones are so 
fortunate ! Why did he return so soon ? 
An idea of my wife’s, I suppose ! Why 
could she not have left him for two 
months longer in Germany ?” The 
baron felt the moment of sentiment had 
gone, and the only effect of prolonging 
his stay would be to make himself de- 
tested by the young girl ; he had there- 
fore ordered the carriage to stop, and 
after coldly saluting Mile. Derville, dis- 
appeared, muttering, 11 Who knows ! 
Life is long ! Mountains do not come to- 
gether; but men and women meet often ! 
Farewell, till we meet again, my hard- 
hearted one !” 

Jeanne continued her journey alone, 
given up to such paroxysms of grief that 
she was almost past feeling. God gives 
a certain amount of suffering to his crea- 
tures, and when the measure is full they 
do not feel what comes afterwards. 
There were moments, however, when 
her agony seemed to be doubled — for 
instance, when she re-called the look 
Maxence had given her as he left. When 
she said to herself, “ Perhaps he be- 
lieved he had the right to despise her.” 
At this thought she felt her whole being 
revolt. The noise of the carriage wheels 
on the rough pavements of Chateauneuf 
roused her from her stupor. | 


She knew Mme. de Bois-Bobert owned 
a house in this pretty little village, 
where, before Paris had absorbed all of 
France, some noble families of Sologne 
had established their winter quarters. 
She could not help looking on the em- 
blazoned arches for the escutcheon that 
she might some day have the right to 
bear — she did not see it. This last illu- 
sion faded away. 

The coachman, who was ordered to 
take Mile. Derville to the Orleans depot, 
crossed Chateauneuf without stopping, 
and threaded the long route which fol- 
lows the banks of the Loire to the 
sources of the Loiret. 

Ah, this route ! With what joy had 
she passed over it in this identical car- 
riage, only a few weeks before. Hope 
then smiled on her — and now ? Now it 
was despair that ruled her heart. 

When they reached the depot the 
servants of Blanchelande, who were jeal- 
ous, as inferiors usually are, and who 
looked upon this young girl as an enemy, 
whom their master had treated for so 
long as a friend a id an equal, threw 
down her “ package,” (so-called in the 
railroad dialect) at the door of the wait- 
ing-room and drove off before she had 
time to turn around. The train did not 
pass till four o’clock — now it was just 
two. 

This was the first time Jeanne had ever 
been thrown on her own resources and 
compelled to look out for herself. Until 
now, others had taken care of her. She 
was sincerely embarrassed, as was evi- 
dent to all around. 

A young clerk, who had a compassion- 
ate nature, offered her a seat, and po- 
litely inquired where she wished to go. 

To speak truly, the poor girl did not 
know. She felt abandoned in this vast 
world — that all corners of the earth were 
equally indifferent to her. 

“Alas! I do not know myself!” re- 
plied she, ingenuously. 

“ Oh ! then mademoiselle travels for 
her own pleasure?” continued the em- 
ployee, asking, for nothing better than to 
carry on a conversation with this young 
and beautiful creature who was entirely 
alone, and did not know where she was 
going. 

“ For my own pleasure ! — oh, no 
sir!” replied Jeanne, quickly, raising 
her beautiful head. 


102 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


The young man looked more closely at 
her. Her eyes showed she had been 
crying, and her whole face bore the 
marks of such sorrow that the youth felt 
himself seized with an involuntry re- 
spect when brought in contact with such 
deep grief. He dared not continue his 
attempt at a familiar conversation. 

“ Mademoiselle/ ” said he, touching 
his gold-laced cap, “ the train for Bor- 
deaux passes in an hour ; the Paris train 
in two — I will place your baggage in a 
safe place, and call you when the gates 
are open.” 

As he was going away, Jeanne re- 
called him. An idea came to her. When 
one does not know where to go they 
generally return to their native place. 
A species of instinct leads us towards 
our cradle,- as if we should regain our 
strength by merely touching the earth 
where we have taken our first steps. 

“ Sir,” said Mile. Derville, raising 
her beautiful, timid eyes to the young 
clerk, “ I wish to go to Avranches ! It 

is there that I ; but I do not know 

the road.” 

“ Train to Normandy, connects with 
l’Ouest ; at Tours the traveller changes 
cars ; takes train for Mans, Argentan, 
Alengon, Falaise; re-takes the direct 
line to Mezidon; quits the railroad at 
Carentan, and continues the route by 
stage,” said the young man, with great 
volubility, suddenly returning to his 
business. “ If mademoiselle pleases,' ' I 
will take her ticket and inform her when 
it is time to start ?” 

“ Oh, sir ! I shall be so much obliged 
to you !” 

“ A first-class ticket ?” continued the 
clerk, examining the elegant but simple 
toilette of Mile. Derville. Jeanne had 
no false pride, no desire to appear above 
her position. 

“No, sir,” said she, sweetly; “a 
second, if you will please obtain one for 
me ; that will answer.” 

“Nothing easier, mademoiselle. Be- 
tween ourselves,” said he, with a sort of 
bonhommie, “ it is rather the best for 
the night ; you have more room to sleep 
in. But not to be impertinent, may I 
ask if you came from a distance ?” 

“ From the Chateau deBlanchelande.” 

“Ah, indeed! On the plateau the 
other side of Chateauneuf — a pr.etty 
place. But it is long since you break- 
fasted — are you not perchance hungry ?” 


“ I believe I am.” 

“ You should be very certain of that,” 
said he, smiling, “ the stomach is not a 
deceiver. Permit me to order you some- 
thing?” 

Without waiting for her reply, he 
went to the restaurant and ordered a 
simple dinner for the beautiful unknown, 
which she did indeed greatly need. 

“ There are still some kind hearts left 
in this world,” murmured Jeanne, with 
tears in her eyes, as she saw him moving 
away. 

The clerk settled her, two hours later, 
in the ladies’ car, where she found her- 
self alone. “ You will be able to sleep 
as soundly here, as in your own little 
white bed,” said he, as he handed her 
her bag. 

“ Thank you for all your kindness !” 
said Jeanne, holding out her hand to 
him, with the gesture of a great lady, 
after first taking off her glove. The 
action was nothing in itself, the manner 
was everything. 

The clerk came from a good family, 
stranded at Orleans, like a floating brand 
from the shipwreck of Parisian life. He 
had been in the world, and understood 
the delicacy and graee of the proceed- 
ing. “Ah! mademoiselle,” stammered 
he, “ at present it is I who must thank 
you.” 

The train started for Paris — the clerk 
stood motionless, watching the car which 
bore away this charming apparition, 
which had come to dazzle an hour of 
his monotonous existence. 

“ Well, no !” said he to himself, “one 
does not see such a thing on the ‘ line’ 
every day. Hey ! with what a grand 
air she extended her little hand, un- 
gloving it — ‘ if you please.’ One might 
call her a princess in disguise — and I 
have ventured to press this pretty white 
hand, instead of kissing it like a mar- 
quis. You will never again have the 
luck, my good man, to place such a girl 
as that in the second-class car! Indeed, 
by my faith ! to-day I would rather be 
conductor of the train than superinten- 
dent of the depot — I would see her 
again at every station.” An approach- 
ing train interrupted these reflections. 

“ Duty before all !” said he, shrug- 
ging his shoulders, “ controllers do not 
please themselves. I will resume these 
rose colored ideas after the departure of 
No. 30.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOK. 


103 


BOOK II. 


CHAPTER I. 

HEN we return to our native 
country, after an absence of many 
years, we always find sad changes. 
What vacancies in the ranks that were 
formerly so full ! How many houses 
that opened so joyously to receive us 
are now closed ! Even the external 
appearance of the streets is no longer 
the same; such a building is pulled 
down; this one was not built; another 
exists no longer. One wanders, as a 
stranger, among his own without being 
recognised; and if those we call by the 
sweet title of “ our own” no longer 
exist — if the country is only a solitude 
for us — oh ! then it is with indescrib- 
able anguish of the heart that we revisit 
the familiar places of our infancy, whose 
memory has followed us through our 
journey of life. 

Such were Jeanne's feelings when 
she entered Avranches, after an absence 
of eight years. She returned at dusk ; 
that melancholy hour which makes 
everything still more gloomy within and 
around us. She arrived tired out from 
her journey, disgusted with the slowness 
of the stage-coach, which had walked 
from one village to the other, while she 
knew not where she would lay her head. 
She alighted at the little village inn, to 
which the driver took her. One night 
is soon passed ; but the room they gave 
her was neither very clean nor very 
comfortable. She had undoubtedly 
been unaccustomed, at St. Denis, to any 
sybaritic luxuries; but everything at 
St. Denis bore at least a latent grandeur 
and nobility, that pleased her naturally 
aristocratic tastes. On leaving there, 
she had found herself surrounded by 
rich luxuries in the enchantments of 
the Chateau de Blanchelande — a fleet- 
ing, deceitful resting-place, in the world 
of luxury and elegance. This was the 
first time she had been brought into 
contact with the commoner realities. 
Life, after indulging her all this time, 
spared her no longer its harsh appren- 


ticeship; and she endured it without 
even the mitigation of a gradual change. 

She slept uncomfortabty, and dreamed 
bad dreams on a hard bed. 

The next morning, her first care was 
to advise M. Gravis, the notary, and 
family friend, of her arrival. 

The honorable notary came immedi- 
ately, as fast as his little limbs could 
bring him, carrying his corporation be- 
fore him, his trinket chain dancing on 
his vest, embroidered with flowers, his 
face freshly shaved, his hair cut short, 
white cravat, and clothed in black, 
though it was scarcely nine o’clock in 
the morning. He wished thus to show 
all the etiquette of a perfect notary — 
and the notary respects uses and cus- 
toms, and conforms himself to traditions. 

The gold spectacles shone with a 
serene and particularly imposing majesty 
on the ridge of a nose on which their 
equilibrium was often in danger, and 
required a frequent movement and ner- 
vous start to replace them in their origi- 
nal position. 

Master Gravis, being led to Jeanne’s 
room, knocked three times on the door 
before opening it, made three bows on 
the threshold before entering, then ad- 
vanced towards Mile. Derville, scarcely 
looking at her. 

If Jeanne had been in any other cir- 
cumstances, she would have found it 
hard to preserve her gravity on seeing 
this grotesque little personage in front 
of her. But the moment would have 
been badly chosen for this arch gaiety, 
and the thought did not even enter her 
mind. 

“ Pardon me for troubling you, sir,” 
said she to the notary, offering him one 
of the two chairs she had found in her 
room. 

Gravis, as if he was much moved by 
the harmonious sound of this voice, so 
rich and full, raised his head quickly, 
and fixed on our heroine the two little 
eyes which sparkled behind the glasses 
of his spectacles. The notary had, a 



104 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


long time ago, seen start for Paris a 
little girl at the most unbecoming age 
of awkward youth. He saw return ja 
beautiful creature, clothed with the 
most precious endowments of youth; 
and, notwithstanding her sorrows, bril- 
liant as a flower. 

The power of beauty, they tell us, 
subjugates tigers in the depths of the 
woods. Notaries are not tigers. Gravis 
was conquered instantly; and when 
Jeanne Derville introduced herself, for 
he had not recognised her, he searched 
in his vocabulary for the most gallant 
forms to express his admiration, which 
was only too evident. Not daring to 
allude directly to it, he spoke first, and 
spoke well, of the great affection that 
had formerly united the colonel and 
himself ; he gave much force to his pro- 
testations, that he was prepared to carry 
the sentiments he had felt for the father 
over to the daughter. 

“ 1 believe you, and thank you, sir,” 
said Mile. Derville, when she could get 
in a word of reply between two sentences 
of his long monologue. “ I know you 
have not waited until to-day to prove 
your devotion to me and mine.” 

“ Doubtlessly, doubtlessly, mademoi- 
selle ; but it seems to me — I feel — I am 
certain that I have never before felt 
such a desire to serve and be useful to 
you.” 

“ So much the better, sir. Keep for 
me, I beseech you, these good inclina- 
tions. I may be obliged to call on them 
sooner than you imagine.” 

“ The sooner the better, mademoi- 
selle,” said the polite notary. 

Jeanne explained her situation, and 
did not hide the necessity she was in of 
finding immediate employment to ena- 
ble her to live. 

All these things Gravis already knew ; 
but it seemed that Jeanne had a way of 
speaking which threw new light on the 
subject. 

“And it is to obtain this position you 
have come to our village?” asked he, 
with much emotion, taking off his spec- 
tacles and carefully wiping them several 
times. “ Hem ! — hem ! — that is serious ! 
But tell me, my dear young lady, can 
you give lessons on the piano ?” 

“ Perhaps ; but I ought first to inform 
you that I have not come to Avranches 


with the idea of permanently remaining 
in this place.” 

“Ah !” 

“No; but, unconsciously, you, sir, 
have been one cause of my journey.” 
“I?” 

“ You ! Before entering my new life, 
I intend to pay my debts of gratitude ; 
and you are my first creditor. I have 
wished to come, to thank you for the 
wise and devoted care with which you 
have arranged my meagre fortune. Oh, 
do not deny this !” added she, as the 
notary modestly shook his head. “ Do 
not deny this. It is useless, for I know 
all. I know also, that all you have done 
for me has been for the memory of my 
father, whose friend you were — and the 
motives to which I place your good 
offices render them more precious still.” 

“ What I have done is very little,” 
replied M. Gravis, “and is not worth 
your thanks. But” — added he, with the 
crafty shrewdness of a business man, 
increased by the caution of a Norman 
— “ have you come here only to see me ?” 

“No, sir!” replied Jeanne, with an 
accent of sorrowful frankness. “ I have 
come for the dead still more than for the 
living. I have wished to kneel on the 
two tombs ; and to find here much sor- 
row, but many dear remembrances.” 

“ Mademoiselle, such feelings honor 
you, and I am certain they will bring 
you happiness.” 

“ Will you have the goodness, sir, to 
get some one to take me to the Bosery ?” 

“ To take you there ! Oh ! pardon me, 
mademoiselle ; but I look upon it as a 
duty as well as a pleasure to take you 
there myself. There is not in all 
Avranches such a trotter as my gray, 
and in little over three quarters of an 
hour” — 

Seeing a slight hesitation in the 
young girl, he added with much tact — 

“ My daughter will accompany us, 
with your permission.” 

“ Ah ! you have a daughter ! I shall 
be charmed to make her acquaintance.” 

“ She is about your age — less beauti- 
ful than yourself — bless me ! slightly 
provincial, but a good creature, with 
great capabilities. Since the death of 
her poor mother she has kept my house. 
But I will marry her soon. You know 
there is not much amusement at Av- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


105 


ranches, though we have a population 
of seven thousand five hundred, an 
imperial magistrate, and an under- 
prefect.” 

“What hour shall we start?” said 
Mile. Derville, who thought all this 
useless. 

“Very soon — this morning. I have 
some signatures to authenticate, though 
I leave the heavy work to my clerks.” 

“ Any time that suits you, will suit 
me.” 

“ You wish always to remember that 
I have been your father’s friend. You 
are right,” added he, increasing a little 
the strength of this intimacy, which was 
perhaps not so great during M. Der- 
ville’s life as since his death. “ The 
colonel never inspired in any one such 
absolute devotion as in myself. He 
returned it by an affection I shall 
never forget, and I will not allow his 
worthy daughter to remain any longer 
in this miserable apartment in the inn 
of the Grand Turk, whilst I have five 
or six empty chambers. My daughter 
would never forgive me.” 

Jeanne had no particular desire to 
stay any longer at the Grand Turk ; so 
she accepted the kind offer of her 
father’s old friend, whose highest desire 
was to become hers. An hour later she 
entered the house of the dignitary by 
the porte cochere, which was decorated 
with the escutcheon of the arms of the 
empire. 

Mile. Gravis, notified by her father, 
was dressed up to receive the Parisian. 
This expression had an unfortunate sig- 
nification for her. A silk dress that the 
dress-maker had sent her from Rennes 
was solemnly taken from her closet, a 
chain of gold wound twice round her neck 
hung on her breast in a double cascade, 
and three fingers out of five on each of 
her hands were decorated with diamond 
rings. 

It was rather early in the day for this 
great display of wealth ; but in this 
good village of Avranches they do not 
make so many toilets as in Paris. They 
dress in the morning for the whole day. 

Mile. Gravis waited for Mile. Der- 
ville in the large parlor, furnished as 
in the time of the first empire, and 
which had not been opened for a month. 
The father of this charming person per- 


formed the introduction in the most 
precise manner : 

“ Mile. Jeanne Derville — 

“ Mile. Rose-Celeste Gravis.” 

The two young girls were not particu- 
larly pleased with each other. Jeanne 
was so taken up with her own troubles 
and affairs, that the grand toilet of Rose- 
Celeste was entirely thrown away. 

Rose-Celeste, for her part, considered 
it a mark of disrespect that Jeanne had 
not changed her simple travelling dress. 
Jeanne’s reserved manners she consi- 
dered coldness and disdain for herself. 
The unpleasant impressions she received 
from these details were never effaced. 

As for our notary, he was charmed to 
welcome into his own house the daugh- 
ter of Colonel Derville, one of the most 
brilliant scholars of Saint Denis, who 
was covered with the laurels of success, 
and what was more, a very beautiful 
person — which always pleases mascu- 
line vanity. He did not even notice the 
commencement of silent hostility in the 
breast ..of his daughter, which he might 
have divined before seeing her, if he 
had better known the human heart, 
especially that of woman. But one can- 
not know everything — even though one 
is an imperial notary. 

They breakfasted slowly, and at twelve 
precisely the “ one-horse wagon demi- 
fortune,” drawn by the stout Perche- 
ronne , of the dappled gray coat, left the 
stable with a startling noise, and awaited 
Monsieur Gravis’s orders in the street, 
under the eyes of all loungers, who 
wondered what rich will or magnificent 
contract the official minister was going 
to arrange in the neighborhood. 

A few minutes later the travellers 
were seated in the comfortable vehicle, 
and were rolling towards Bretagne. The 
journey was quickly and silently accom- 
plished. 

Gravis respected Jeanne’s medita- 
tions ; and his daughter, who was still 
out of sorts, did not think it necessary 
to make any fresh exertions for a stran- 
ger, who seemed so incapable of appre- 
ciating them. 

They arrived in less than an hour. 

Years had effaced nothing from the 
faithful memory of Mile. Derville. As 
soon as she saw the Rosery from a distance 
she recognised all the details of the place, 


106 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


so familiar to her infancy. The little 
hill behind the house, crowned with its 
grove of apple trees, at this moment 
laden with their rich-colored fruit \ the 
grass-plat in front, on which she had 
so often seated herself, and the gravel- 
walk, over which her little feet had so 
many times raced. 

The gray, who was used to coming 
here, stopped before the iron gate. 
Jeanne’s tenant recognised the carriage 
of the notary, and hastened to open it. 
He had formerly been a soldier, and 
now, past middle-age, was ending his 
life as one ends a beautiful day, in that 
deep serenity which is alone given by 
the consciousness of duty performed. 

“ Oh ! good morning, captain,” said 
Gravis, who had jumped out. “ Here 
is Mile. Derville, your landlady, who has 
come to look at her house.” 

“ You are at home here, mademoi- 
selle,” said the captain, with a simpli- 
city which was not devoid of an honest 
grace. He offered Jeanne his arm, and 
did his best to exercise the duties of 
hospitality. He offered a slight repast 
to the young girls. 

“ I thank you,” replied Jeanne, “ but 
I wish to give you as little trouble as 
possible. All I ask is to be allowed to see 
perhaps for the last time the house where 
I have lived, the chamber where my 
father died.” 

“For the last time! Oh, Mademoi- 
selle !” said Gravis, in his most pathetic 
tone, “ how can you speak thus ?” 

“ We must consider everything, dear 
sir,” replied the young girl. “ Alas ! who 
knows ? I may be obliged to sell the 
Rosery.” 

“ Oh no ! I know your feelings too well 
not to be certain, that you will never 
consent to part with this little corner 
of the earth, which encloses your sweet- 
est remembrances.” 

“ One wishes not always that which 
one does, and we do not always that 
which we wish!” replied Jeanne in a 
low tone. 

They entered the house. The notary 
had let it with all its furniture, and the 
new tenant being an exact and neat man, 
having found things to his taste, had kept 
them in the same state. He had alter- 
ed nothing in M. Herville’s chamber — one 
could have imagined the colonel had left 
it the same morning. By an inspiration 


innate to a great heart, the captain had 
the delicacy to leave Jeanne alone. The 
young girl had burst into tears, when no 
one saw her, on the couch where her 
father had breathed his last and had 
given her his last kiss. She remained 
a long time alone in this chamber. One 
is even ashamed to give way to sorrow. 
When she went down there was sadness 
in her soul and on her face, but she was 
more calm. 

On reaching the last step, she was 
going into the little saloon, where her 
friends were waiting for her, when she 
was suddenly seized by two strong arms, 
lifted from the floor, and kissed twice on 
both cheeks. 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ; is it really possible ?” 
cried a broken voice, “ I see you again. 
It is truly you, my dear young lady ! 
my beautiful little Jeanne ! Oh ! mon 
Dieu ! mon Dieu ! let me look at you ! 
How you have grown ! and then how 
beautiful you have become — though too 
pale. Ah ! now I can go with the two 
others, since I have seen you once more. 
I will tell them you have not forgotten 
them — nor me either — this is so, Mile. 
Jeanne ?” 

“Neither them, nor thee, nor any one, 
my poor Jacqueline!” said Jeanne, 
pressing in her delicate palms the rough 
but loyal hands of the uncouth Bre- 
tonne, who had reared her, and whose 
fierce sorrow we once saw burst like a 
roaring lion in Mme. de Boutaric’s house, 
when the stern marquise had refused to 
take her with the child. 

. Being no longer able to take care of 
her master, Jacqueline took care of the 
house ; seeing no more the people, she 
attached herself to the furniture. When 
the notary rented the furnished house to 
the captain, the latter was glad enough 
to accept the services of the Breton ne. 
It was only necessary to hear how faith- 
fully and devotedly she had served those 
who had preceded him at the Bosery. 
He was much moved, and took the ser- 
vant with the house. 

Surrounded by so many objects which 
recalled the family she had served, Jac- 
queline had kept them in her memory 
as she did her creed. Jeanne, the only 
survivor of the Dervilles, now engrossed 
the thoughts of this rude but noble na- 
ture, who made this attachment the 
greatest happiness of her life. She had 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


107 


suffered by this long absence ; she had 
thought herself forgotten, and she had 
pardoned the forgetfulness ; for, in her 
humble loyal affection, she believed she 
owed everything to others, and that 
others owed nothing to her. 

During Mme. de Boutaric’s life, J acque- 
line had not been so unhappy. For the 
marquise — a good judge of the heart — had 
understood the high and sincere feelings 
of the humble servant, and to prove her 
appreciation had often given her news 
of the little scholar. After her death, 
the poor woman was entirely cut off from 
this last consolation. She remained 
completely ignorant of all that concerned 
this dear idol whom she continually 
worshipped. One can understand the 
ardor and overflowing of her affections 
when now she saw Mile. Derville. She 
bad not seen her enter the house; she 
was unaware of her presence ; indeed 
for her the meeting was like a thun- 
der-clap. Joy makes one afraid, but it 
does not kill. Jacqueline recovered, 
but not without having felt such violent 
and long emotions that she said, ingenu- 
ously, instead of making her happy it 
had brought her much evil. 

“ How good it is to feel one is loved 
so much !” murmured Jeanne, as it 
were aside; and she involuntarily 
thought of the one she wished to love 
her, and who now, perhaps, believed he 
had reason to despise her. It was one 
sorrow more — not the less cruel, because 
but one of a long list of many others. 

Jacqueline saw the shadow which 
spread over the face of the young girl. 

“ What do you expect, mademoiselle ?” 
said she, in a low tone. “God is the 
master. When he orders, we must obey.” 

These simple words recalled Jeanne’s 
wandering thoughts, and brought her 
from the living to the dead. 

“ Yes,” said she, “ you are right, Jac- 
queline. By my faith !” continued she, 
passing her hand over her brow and 
eyes, “ yes, thou art right, my good girl. 
What God wills, his creatures ought to 
will for themselves. 

“ But listen. I have not come here 
only to see the Rosery, but also to kneel 
on my parents’ tomb. Leave the rest, 
and come with me to the cemetery. I 
wish to be accompanied there by thee.” 

“ The fact is, mademoiselle, that no 


person except yourself loved them as 
I did.” 

The young girl went out by a door 
which led to the enclosure, across which 
there was a path leading directly to the 
field of eternal repose. 


CHAPTER II. 

\TTITHOUT wishing to reproduce the 
» » sentimental elegy so well done by 
Gray, one finds a deep charm, full of 
emotion and sadness, in a pious visit to 
a village cemetery. There no proud 
monuments — no false, bombastic inscrip- 
tions carved in marble! Nearly every- 
where, nameless tombs, covered with the 
green verdure ; here and there some 
crosses of black wood ; yet more rarely, 
a white stone. Still, however, this dust 
that you tread on with your feet was 
formerly alive. Hearts once beat in the 
breasts of these skeletons. Ardent pas- 
sions once reigned under these brows 
to-day sleeping their eternal sleep. 

Mile. Derville had never seen her 
father’s tomb. She only knew it was 
placed near that of the wife he had loved 
so well — his wife, Jeanne’s mother. The 
young girl took the path her feet had so 
often trod. The two twin graves were 
not much better than those by which 
they were surrounded. Two names and 
two dates on each piece of black marble 
— this was all. But they were sur- 
rounded by flowers, kept by the hand 
of an attentive friend. 

“ It is thou, Jacqueline,” said Jeanne, 
looking at the Breton ne; “ it is thou who 
hast planted and watered these.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

“ You kind friend, how can I thank 
you for all that ?” 

“Oh, mademoiselle, you have reward- 
ed me for all that by saying — ‘Come, 
pray with me for them.”’ 

They both then prayed, Jeanne kneel- 
ing on the graves. 

She prayed earnestly, full of faith and 
love. When she afose, she felt more 
strong, more firm, more capable of facing 
life with calmness and submitting cou- 
rageously to its trials. She seated her- 
self on the grass, at the foot of these 
cherished tombs, and looked around, 
with her eyes still full of tears, as if she 


108 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


wished to engrave their likenesses and 
remembrances on her soul, which hence- 
forward nothing could efface. 

On the other sides of the living hedges 
which enclosed them, she could see the 
sea rolling in its gray sand, with its large, 
ever-restless wates, whose plaintive moan 
was heard in the silence around. 

At the horizon, Mount Saint Mi- 
chel, silent and immovable, raised her 
grand and gloomy silhouette. 

It was a beautiful autumn day, with 
a blue sky, of that delicate shade which 
is never known in the brightness of a 
southern sky — a true Normandy heaven ; 
but it was under these skies that J eanne 
had first opened her eyes to the light, 
and she found a charm in their melan- 
choly grace. 

“ Is it, mademoiselle,” said Jacqueline, 
who saw she was absorbed in her con- 
templation; “ is it, mademoiselle, because 
you do not dislike this country ?” 

“ Dislike it ? No indeed ! I love it ! 
it is here I would wish to live — if — ” 

“ If ?” 

“ If I was able.” 

“ Oh ! as if one could not always do as 
they wish ! In the first place everything is 
cheap here. It is not like Paris, where 
it seems they sell everything — even the 
bad water that they make you drink. 
For your home, you shall have the Rose- 
ry, which is as much as to say the pret- 
tiest place in the department. For your 
servant you shall have me, who will not 
cost you a great deal.” 

“Well, my poor Jacqueline, even all 
that will not be enough — I must still be 
fed.” 

“Do not be afraid of that.” 

“ Eh ! what will you do ?” 

“ It will not take a great deal to keep 
you ! after working for you, I will work 
hard for others — and with what I can 
earn ” 

“ And do you think my father’s daugh- 
ter could thus accept thy charity V* 

“ You will return it all to me some 
day, when you are married.” 

Mile. Derville only shook her head. 
Then, seeing that Jacqueline looked 
at her silently and sadly, she soon 
said — 

“ And I, also — I must work — so that 
the two who sleep here, near us, under 
the sod, may not be ashamed of me, 
and who perhaps hear us now.” 


“ Work ! You ! With such hands ? 
What could you do ?” 

“Oh! I certainly could not plough,” 
replied Jeanne, with a faint smile*; 
“ but every one has their furrow to turn, 
and mine will not be less hard than 
others.” 

“ I did not think in Paris you had 
any ground to cultivate.” 

“ No ; but minds are to be cultivated 
as well as earth. I will give lessons, if 
you wish to know all. I have been 
taught; I will now teach others. They 
have made me an upright woman ; what 
I have received, I will try and impart. 
Do you understand ?” 

“ Not very well. You intend to teach. 
You ! a colonel’s daughter !” 

“ I know several general’s daughters 
who would be delighted if they could 
do as much.” 

“ That makes no difference ; it is a 
disagreeable employment.” 

“ Not always ; what would you when 
one can do nothing else ? Men make 
their own way, and they can select. I 
cannot be judge, lawyer, nor doctor; 
can I ? There remain to us women 
only three or four employments, from 
which I have chosen the one that seems 
to suit me best.” 

“ Mademoiselle, all this is very sad !” 

“ Many other things are also sad,” 
said Jeanne, raising her eyes to heaven, 
“ and we must be resigned. But we 
must return. We have already made 
this poor M. Gravis wait a long time, 
and he has, I know, a great deal to attend 
to. Come !” 

Jeanne gathered a flower from each 
tomb, and started down the path. 

The notary and the captain came to 
meet her. Rose-Celeste thought it more 
dignified to remain in the parlor. 

“ What do you think of her ?” asked 
Gravis of his companion. “ There can 
be but one opinion on that subject — she 
is charming !” 

“ She will be a perfect wife !” 

“ She makes me regret I am not 
twenty-five years again.” 

“ Ah ! if I were only fifty !” mur- 
mured the notary to himself. 

In the meanwhile Mile. Derville ad- 
vanced towards them on a straight path 
bordered by acacias, with their round 
tops and leaning branches, forming a 
triumphal arch of green above her head. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


109 


“ I thank you, sir,” said she, ad- 1 
dressing the notary first; “I owe you, 
to-day, a great consolation and happi- 
ness/’ 

“ Those who may be fortunate enough 
to be of service to you are the obliged 
ones,” replied Gravis. 

“ This is your home,” said the cap- 
tain, in his turn, “ from the moment 
you enter into the court of the cottage. 

I am only the guardian of the house, 
and you will always find it in the same 
state you leave it to-day.” 

“ You are almost as good as M. 
Gravis,” said Jeanne, extending her 
hand; u to say this, is to say everything,” 
added she, looking at the notary, who 
had assumed great importance. 

The carriage was called. The cap- 
tain helped in the young girl. 

“We will see you soon again?” said 
he in a tone of parental affection. 

“ My destiny is so uncertain that I 
cannot promise anything,” replied Mile. 
Derville ; “ all I can say to you is, that 
my thoughts will often return here. I 
am mistaken — they will always be here.” 

Rose-Celeste, who had taken no part 
in this conversation, appeared to be 
absorbed in contemplating the hands of 
her watch, and pointed out the hour to 
the notary. 

“ You remember everything,” said 
Gravis ; “ and your father always forgets. 
Adieu, captain, I must pass an hour in 
my study before dinner. Go on, Peter, 
let us be off.” 

“ Who knows when we will see her 
here again?” said Jacqueline, looking 
after the carriage. 

Jeanne was woman enough, too saga- 
cious not to see how badly disposed 
Mile. Gravis felt towards her. She had 
already experienced too well the sad 
bitterness of forced hospitality to be 
affronted again. She would willingly 
have left Avranches the next morning. 
But the kindness and obligingness of 
the excellent father of this very disa- 
greeable young lady, the services he 
had already rendered her, and what he 
was still disposed to do for her, deserved 
some return, and would have been badly 
repaid by this sudden announcement of 
her departure. 

In the evening during the family 
dinner, the conversation turned on Mme. 
de Boutaric. I 


Jeanne spoke of her from her heart, 
and in affecting words expressed her 
sorrow and regret. 

Gravis listened with visible pleasure ; 
one might say he enjoyed the enthusiasm 
of her soul, even though he was not the 
object. 

“If she feels thus towards Mme. de 
Boutaric, who only intended to benefit 
her, what would she feel if she had a 
real subject — a serious subject — of grati- 
tude ?” 

Such feelings are dangerous when in- 
spired by a young, beautiful and seduc- 
tive woman, and experienced by an 
imperial royal notary, who has passed 
his fiftieth year, and is afflicted with a 
disagreeable, overbearing daughter, and 
is growing rapidly stout. 

The name of the marquise, and the 
remembrance of her unfinished will, led 
naturally to the question of Jeanne’s 
future. M. Gravis touched slightly on 
the subject. 

“ Do not let us speak of the absent,” 
said Mile. Derville, with a forced gaiety 
and indifference she was far from feel- 
ing ; “ my future belongs to me — the 
future is all I have.” 

“ One who has friends has no right to 
speak so,” said the notary, stifling a 
sigh which, if Mile. Rose-Celeste had 
not been present, would have burst from 
his full heart. 

“ Dear M. Gravis,” replied Jeanne, 
sadly, “ I have had friends. Alas ! I 
am only eighteen years, and I use al- 
ready the past tense. Yes, I have had 
friends — and I know what friendship 
costs.” 

“ Now you calumniate life and human 
nature.” 

“ I think not. Friendship — that noble 
sentiment — went up to heaven with an- 
cient righteousness; and do you know 
what is now left in the world ? Unions, 
but no friendships ; trivial, slight unions, 
whose only aim is pleasure, and which 
are dissolved of themselves when one of 
the parties can no longer follow in the 
same flowery path.” 

“Oh! mademoiselle, do you believe 
what you say ?” 

“I am indeed forced to believe it — but 
there are some exceptions,” added she, 
placing her fine white hand in the large 
one of the notary — whilst Mile. Gravis 
| laughed scornfully, showing so entirely 


110 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


the color of her teeth, that it might 
have been designated the yellow laugh. 

“ Exceptions prove the rule !” con- 
tinued Mile. Derville, looking at Rose- 
Celeste. “ The fact is, dear, good mas- 
ter, that your very humble servant, who 
is only a poor girl, cannot allow herself 
to enjoy your hospitality any longer. 
To morrow morning you will sign her 
passport, and she will start in pursuit 
of that bald goddess that is called op- 
portunity, and which pursuit, in com- 
mon prose, means, try to obtain a situa- 
tion. 

“ To-morrow is entirely too soon !” 
replied M. Gravis, in the most light and 
indifferent manner he could assume, 
without even looking at Jeanne, for he 
felt the formidable eyes of his daughter 
resting heavily upon him. 

“ One cannot leave too soon when the 
end is far off and the route very diffi- 
cult.” 

“ One always leaves too soon for those 
that are left,” replied the notary. 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! if she were only 
going this evening ! and that they would 
let the subject rest !” thought Rose- 
Celeste. 

“ I do not wish to importune you,” 
continued M. Gravis; “ only you have 
perhaps forgotten that to-morrow will 
be Sunday, and I would advise you not 
to start on that day to seek for fortune.” 

“You are right,” said Jeanne, glad 
of the opportunity of pleasing him ; “I 
forget the days. These constant journeys 
keep you from knowing how time goes. 
I will be most happy to stay with you 
till Monday.” 

“ I know you are an early riser,” said 
M. Gravis, in a low tone, as she was 
leaving the table; “ to-morrow morning 
before mass I should like to see you in 
my study for a few minutes — I have 
something important to say to you.” 

Jeanne mutely acquiesced; and, worn 
out by her emotions and the fatigue of 
yesterday’s journey, she retired at once 
to her chamber. 

The next morning, whilst Rose-Celeste 
was putting the finishing touches to the 
toilet destined to heighten her charms, 
and to cause more than one distraction 
among her devoteds, Jeanne, who had 
not even opened her trunks, came down 
in her simple elegant travelling-dress, 
and knocked slightly at the study door. 


The door opened immediately, but it 
was not Gravis who stood before Mile. 
Derville. Scrupulous observers of the 
Sunday’s repose, all the young clerks, 
paid by the month, had arranged all the 
papers the evening before, and were 
very careful not to show themselves 
again. Alone, the poor man of order, 
father of a family, nearly fifty years old, 
who worked at his documents, kept the 
study, piling up roll after roll, and 
making a joyful consummation of 
stamped paper at seventy cents a folio. 

The impression he felt on seeing 
the young girl resembled that which 1 * 
you and I would feel on seeing a vision 
from the next world! Never had such 
an exhibition of distinction, elegance, 
and grace passed before his dazzled 
eyes! One look showed Jeanne the 
triumph she had gained over this simple 
soul ; and, as a woman is always a 
woman, she was internally flattered, and 
thanked him with a smile. 

“Is M. Gravis here?” asked she in 
her sweetest voice, and with her most 
charming manner. 

The humble scribe remained silent 
for a few moments, as if he had not 
understood her. 

Jeanne repeated her question more 
softly still. 

“ He is in his office,” said the clerk, 
at last recovering his senses, and he 
showed Jeanne into the sanctuary where 
the patron, as they called him, consulted 
personally with his clients. 

Gravis, when he saw Mile. Derville, 
left the leather chair in which he had 
been so majestically enthroned, and 
met her at the door, and made her sit 
near him in a solemn manner. 

“ Punctual as a chronometer,” said he, 
looking at his bronze clock. “ Punctu- 
ality is even the first quality of youth, 
and also of middle age. With this, 
one can unconsciously accomplish every- 
thing. But ought I to be astonished at 
any of your virtues? Are you not per- 
fect in all things?” 

“ You would take back all that before 
eating a bushel of salt with me,” replied 
Jeanne, with a smile. 

“ Believe me, mademoiselle, I should 
not be afraid to try.” 

“ It is not very long since I obeyed 
every sound of the clock, and it is no 
trouble for me to be punctual, espe- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Ill 


eially with you, whose every moment 
counts.” 

“ I do not waste my time, hut it would 
be better employed if I consecrated it 
always to your service.” 

“ A poor client ! I pity your practice 
if it has nothing more profitable than 
me.” 

“ You are, however, the last I will 
wish to lose,” said the notary, with ani- 
mation. 

“ This proves how disinterested you 
are.” 

“Each one, mademoiselle, attends to 
*his interests as he thinks best.” 

Jeanne, remembering the Baron of 
Blanchelande, and his past gallantries, 
felt a vague feeling of fear, and resolved 
to be on her guard. 

“ I believe,” said she, coldly, “ that 
you have urged me to visit your study 
to speak on serious affairs.” 

“ So she does not believe this serious 
enough,” thought the poor notary. 

But Mile. Derville’s tone roused him 
to himself, and he became instantly the 
man of business. 

“ Behold,” said he, opening a bundle 
of papers, “ the state of your property 
to*day. Will you look over them ?” 

“ I believe,” said Jeanne, with a care- 
less gesture, not even looking at the pa- 
pers he handed her, “that the account 
is not hard to settle ; rather fortu- 
nate if it is balanced by two ciphers, 
the one in the assets, the other in the 
debts.” 

The notary took from the bundle a 
large paper, covered with figures ruled 
in separate columns, and wished to read, 
article by article, all this “ Greek” to 
Jeanne. 

“ Do not give yourself so much trou- 
ble,” said the young girl ; “ I will be 
contented to hear the sum total — that I 
have already been informed of by ma- 
dame la superintendante.” 

“ Very well — as you please,” said M. 
Gravis. “ Know, then, that when all 
the debts are paid, nothing will be left 
you from your father's and mother's es- 
tates but the little enclosure of the Bo- 
sery, and its furniture. The whole is 
rented for five hundred francs to Captain 
Laurent, on a lease which has still five 
years to run, by myself; and I do not 
hesitate to say it is well rented. You 
have then five hundred francs rent pre- 
8 


’ cisely, mademoiselle ; or rather, you will 
have them, for the law has dedicated 
them for three years longer to the cred- 
, itors of the estate.” 

Jeanne heard this positive precise 
statement with a calmness that aston- 
ished the notary, who was unaccustomed 
to such resignation among his honorable 
Normandy clients. The poor child had 
positively declared that she already 
knew her situation, but the notary could 
not believe they had explained it to her 
so clearly. 

“ I received my income when I left 
school, and I found it very convenient.” 

“ What income ?” 

“ A modest pension that the Legion 
of Honor gives for a few years to cer- 
tain scholars.” 

“ That is fortunate ! I did not know 
of it !” 

“ Five hundred francs a year,” con- 
tinued Mile. Derville, “ in Paris, is not 
enough to buy bread and water — posi- 
tively.” 

“ Mme. de Boutaric is much to 
blame !” 

“ She owed me nothing.” 

“ One always owes you when it is in 
their power to give you.” 

“ That is the opinion of a kind friend, 
but not of a judicial counsel. At all 
events, there is nothing for me to do to- 
day, but bend to unfortunate circum- 
stances. They are stronger than my- 
self. Complaints are useless, recrimina- 
tions foolish ; in my school, they taught 
me above everything to use reason and 
practical good sense.” 

Jeanne said this with a simple frank 
air, which showed she really felt it. 

“ I see, with pleasure,” said the no- 
tary, “ that you understand clearly your 
position, that you see things as they are 
without the slightest illusion. This is 
for the best. Illusion might be fatal to 
you. But the interest I have always 
felt for, and will always feel for you, 
authorizes me to ask your plans.” 

“Oh! Monsieur Gravis, to work for 
my living ! there is only one reply pos- 
sible to your question.” 

“ You are young, mademoiselle, full 
of courage, but also of inexperience. 
You will soon find yourself overcome 
by difficulties, which you do not even 
suspect. To work for one's living— if 
you only knew what that means to a 


112 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


woman ! To live by your own work, 
that is impossible !” 

“ Difficult, I will allow ; impossible, 
no ! besides, I am not allowed to choose. 
What I do, I am compelled to, do. You 
know that perfectly.” 

“ Still, if you desire to do so — ” 

“ I wish to do all that is right, good, 
and honest.” 

“The social law does not require a 
woman to work.” 

“ No ! without doubt — when she has 
ten thousand pounds per annum.” 

“ She has had natural protectors 
created for her.” 

“ Protectors ! Oh ! what do you 
mean by that expression?” asked the 
colonel’s daughter, with some haughti- 
ness. “ What is your meaning of a pro- 
tector ? A father ? I am an orphan ! 
A husband ? I am unmarried ! Yes,” 
said Jeanne, with a rush of bitterness 
to her lips, for the recollections of Max- 
tence crossed her heart like a red-hot 
iron. “There is happiness in being 
unmarried.” 

“ You calumniate us,” said M. Gravis. 
“ I must exonerate my sex.” 

Here Jeanne felt a visible uneasiness. 

“ Listen, mademoiselle,” continued 
'Gravis. “ I am aware I am no longer 
in my first youth.” 

“ Alas ! not even in the second,” 
thought the young girl. 

“ I am not so very old, however. I 
am just fifty-four. I do not ask an 
intense passion from my wife, like the 
heroes of a novel — a foolish race which 
makes a sad figure in real life. But if 
you think you are capable of feeling for 
me an affection, mixed with confidence 
and esteem; if this affection is strong 
enough to induce you to deign to be- 
come my wife ; the charge of your life 
belongs to me, and you will be hencefor- 
ward free from all forethought and care.” 

Notwithstanding the oratorical pre- 
cautions of the notary, the proposition 
was so strange and unexpected, that the 
young girl thought at first she had not 
understood him correctly. But Gravis’s 
questioning looks did not leave her long 
in doubt. She must reply. 

“And your daughter?” stammered 
she. 

This was truly the best objection she 
could raise, the only one that would not 
hurt the feelings of the poor aspirer, as 


she placed on other than personal 
grounds, the cause of the refusal she 
must make him. 

“ Rose-Celeste ! Well ! I will make 
a sacrifice. I will give her a fine mar- 
riage-portion ; and let her marry the 
clerk who will be in love with it.” 

“ To love the marriage settlements !” 
thought Jearine, who could hardly help 
smiling. 

“Say only that you consent, and I 
will arrange everything — no obstacles 
nor difficulties will stop me. I will 
smooth everything. The only thing 
that I ask is that you will love me a lit- 
tle — or rather — let me love you a great 
deal.” 

“ How easy he thinks this is to do !” 
thought the beautiful creature, stealing 
a quick look at the notary, who certainly 
was not very attractive in his appear- 
ance. Then in her gentlest voice she said, 
“ M. Gravis, I am truly touched, most 
truly grateful; I do not know how I 
can thank you sufficiently.” 

“ By accepting me !” said the notary, 
with unexpected energy, holding out his 
hand to the young girl. 

Mile. Derville took no notice of the 
interruption or the movement. 

“ I do not know,” she went on, “how 
to thank you for this fresh proof of 
your goodness, added to so many others ; 
but the only way I can prove 1 am not 
unworthy of it — is by refusing !” 

This sort of reasoning seemed as sin- 
gular to the notary as his logic had been 
to her, and he signified by his head that 
he did not understand her very well. 

“ Yes,” continued Jeanne, in a firmer 
tone, “I am infinitely grateful for your 
generous offer ; but a union between us 
is an absolutely impossible event. All 
is on one side, nothing on the other. 
You would soon see, dear sir, that you 
had made a very bad bargain.” 

“ Because I have fortune !” said the 
notary eagerly. “ But you, have you not 
spirits, youth, beauty and grace ? You 
will have the bad bargain, mademoiselle, 
and you do not wish to make it — because 
— tell me truly, mademoiselle — because 
I am not agreeable to you — I can per- 
fectly understand that.” 

The notary pronounced these last 
words with a sincere and sorrowful 
humility, which made a painful impres- 
sion upon Jeanne. Whilst the illegal 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


113 


attentions of the Baron de Blanchelande 
had found her haughty and immovable 
in her proud chastity, the true, loyal 
sentiments of M. Gravis touched her 
soul. It cost her a great deal to wound 
such a generous and devoted heart. But 
there are some occasions when all com- 
promise is impossible. When the heart 
says no ! the lips cannot say yes ! There 
are some refusals that cost dear, but it 
would be dishonest not to make them. 

The notary regarded Jeanne silently, 
with beseeching looks ! But the eyes 
were distorted by the spectacles. Glasses 
are beautiful magnifiers, but they cloud 
all impressiveness. 

“I feel for you/’ continued Jeanne, 
taking Gravis’ hand, that she held for a 
moment in her own, “ as much affec- 
tion as esteem. I have more confidence 
in you than any one else in the world ; 
all this is very true — and I am certain 
that you know this. But what shall I 
say ? I am undoubtedly a strange, 
foolish creature — but all this does not 
seem to suffice for marriage. And then, 
you know, I am still very young.” 

“ Yes, very young — for me !” 

“ For every one. I swear to you be- 
fore God that there is no one at this 
time in the world I wish to marry.” 

“ You are fortunate in being able to 
wait,” said the notary, with the sadness 
of a man who has allowed himself to 
love too late in life. 

The conversation, if carried on in this 
strain, would soon be equally embar- 
rassing for both. 

Gravis saw this, and had the good 
taste to desist from urging her, for he 
knew it would uselessly torment Jeanne, 
without in the least aiding his already 
desperate cause. 

“ I do not wish,” said he, “ to add 
importunity to my rash desires. I can 
only now pray you, mademoiselle, to for- 
get an instance of foolish and wild pre- 
tensions.” 

“ I will only remember it to recall at 
the same time the delicacy with which 
you have expressed/ sentiments that I 
am as proud of having inspired as un- 
happy that I cannot respond to as I 
should like.” 

“ You do everything with a good 
grace,” said the notary, “and constrain 
me to thank the one by whom I have 
just been * , ' v fused. Console me at least 


by the assurance that I shall always be 
your friend.” 

“ I am certain I shall never have a 
better one than yourself.” 

Gravis, more calm, resigned himself 
to the paternal role, for which he was 
quite suited, and resigning his rash pre- 
tensions, he inquired with a solicitude 
which was perfectly reasonable, what 
were the first steps Mile. Derville in- 
tended taking, to what houses she 
thought of going, and at what hotel 
she desired to stay when she reached 
Paris. He offered to give her a letter 
to a friend of his, who kept a respecta- 
ble establishment. U A rare thing in 
that abominable city,” he added, with 
an ingenuous movement of fear. He 
gave her all sorts of good advice, and 
made her promise that she would apply 
to him if she should ever become in 
serious embarrassments. 

Rose-Celeste, dressed for conquests, 
entered her father’s study at the pre- 
cise moment when this embarrassing 
conversation was ended. Jeanne was 
happy at her arrival, for it afforded the 
interruption she so eagerly desired and 
knew not how to accomplish. 

The daughter of the notary, to use a 
vulgar saying, had all her sails set ; her 
dove-colored dress, of shot silk, was 
surrounded with jewels, and she wore a 
flower garden on the top of her head. 
The heart of the poor substitute must 
certainly yield. 

Mile. Gravis remained immovable on 
the threshold of the study, looking sus- 
piciously at the little group. 

“ Hold !” she said, to herself. “ See 
how papa is coloring ! Indeed, if this is 
not looked after this affected young lady 
will have him soon infatuated, and he 
shall not be stolen — at his age ! if it can 
be prevented !” 

After this slightly disrespectful re- 
flection she addressed herself to Jeanne : 
“ Why, mademoiselle, it is ten o’clock, 
and you are not yet dressed ! The last 
bell will soon ring ; we shall be late for 
the procession !” 

u Do not wait for me, mademoiselle ; 
I should be extremely sorry to deprive 
such a pious person as yourself of the 
slightest portion of the services. I will 
go to twelve o’clock mass, if your father 
will be kind enough to escort me !” 

“ Certainly, certainly ! with much 


114 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


pleasure !” said the notary, delighted 
with this proposition ; for it would give 
him two hours longer to talk with Jeanne. 

“ Well, indeed ! it seems they are 
happy enough to be left together !” 
thought Rose-Celeste. And as she was 
not much inclined to promote the happi- 
ness of others, she instantly decided to 
make the third party. 

“ Since this is so,” said she, looking 
at her father, and speaking in the sharp 
positive tone which the poor notary was 
not in the habit of resisting, “ I will also 
wait. The grand mass is only absolutely 
necessary every third Sunday, and I was 
there last week.” 

Without waiting for a reply, which 
could not, of course, be a refusal, Rose- 
Celeste took off her bonnet with great 
care, so as not to disturb the arrange- 
ment of flowers and ribbons, and seated 
herself firmly in the window recess, pre- 
tendingto read the Notaries’ Official jour- 
nal, perfectly satisfied with the game she 
believed she had played on her father 
and Mademoiselle Derville. 

“ What an agreeable step-daughter I 
should have had !” thought Jeanne, re- 
garding her at this moment. 

The presence of this dragon rendered 
impossible all intimate conversation. 
Jeanne lost nothing, however, by this 
arrangement; it was a relief to her not 
being obliged to listen to any more of 
M. Gravis’ sad confidences. Instead of 
annoying her, as Rose-Celeste intended, 
she did her a service ; but as she had 
not much desire to enjoy the conversa- 
tion of the daughter and the father she 
asked Mile. Gravis to excuse her, for 
she had several important letters to write, 
and making her best bow she withdrew 
to her own room. 

“ The impertinent creature !” mur- 
mured the daughter of the notary ; “ she 
does just as she pleases ! I wish she 
was a hundred miles away! Happily, 
to-morrow is not far off !” 

Jeanne started the next morning. 

“Well,” said she, as she got into the 
carriage, “ I now commence the life of 
the Wandering Jew, rolling from city to 
city, without having, alas ! the everlast- 
ing five cents in my pocket !” 


CHAPTER III. 

I T was barely two months since Mile. 

Derville had left Saint Denis, and 
what stern experience she had gained in 
so short a time ! What mournful 
thoughts filled her soul ! What a sad 
future opened before her tearful eyes ! 

When, from the coach door, she saw 
the end of her journey, Paris, all 
clothed in the uncertain light of the 
dawn, outlining in vastness her enor- 
mous profile, she could not help trem- 
bling, as so many others before her have 
done, and as so many after her will still 
do, on perceiving the battle-ground 
where alone, without aid, almost with- 
out arms, she must fight the battle of 
life. 

This was only a passing emotion, 
which all the strength of her nature 
rose to combat. This was not the 
moment for sentimental weakness it 
was the hour of contest and of action. 
Her good sense, showing her things in 
a practical light, made her understand 
them perfectly. 

When she left the cars she drove to 
the hotel M. Gravis had indicated. 

There she met with her first disap- 
pointment. The house the notary had 
known some years before simple in its 
arrangements and moderate in its prices, 
had undergone a complete and sorrowful 
transformation. It was now a grand 
hotel, with all the pretensions of one. 
It had also entirely changed hands, and 
Mile. Derville did not find the respectable 
lady to whom she had been recommended 
by M. Gravis. But, since she was 
there, what had she better do ? She did 
not know where else to go; so she 
stayed. 

When the poor girl found herself all 
alone iu this cold, gloomy room of a fur- 
nished hotel, abandoned by every one, 
entirely desolate, obliged to plan and 
work, when it is so sweet for a woman 
to rely upon another, she felt more 
bitterly than ever the sadness of her 
isolation. She felt overcome by an un- 
conquerable feeling of timidity. She 
declared to herself that she would never 
have the courage to enter a house to 
seek for a situation. How should she 
address the occupants ? What could she 
say? If she only had some letters of 
introduction ; but nothing — absolutely 
nothing — it was too little ! 


TIIE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


115 


And if they should unfortunately take 
her for what she was not ! In the hotel 
even, there were people who looked at 
her in an unpleasant manner. To avoid 
these looks as much as possible she re- 
mained in her room, and had her meals 
served. This unwonted delicacy would 
doubtlessly increase her bill. 

At last, the idea that she had so judi- 
ciously made at Avranches returned in 
full force — that no one would come to 
seek for her, and if she needed people’s 
aid she must find them. 

The commencement of everything is 
difficult, especially in those badly ar- 
ranged walks of life which have no par- 
ticular rule or established hierarchy, 
where they do not follow in arranged 
foot paths, but where each one starts 
out for himself and reaches the end only 
through his own exertions. To enter 
into these careers delicate natures have 
trials which amount almost to agony. 
However, necessity — the sovereign and 
tyrannical mistress of life — commands 
on some occasions so imperatively that 
there is nothing left but to obey. “ It is 
necessary !” From this grand dictum 
there is no withdrawal. 

Jeanne first thought of Saint Denis, 
the maternal asylum which had so care- 
fully shielded her youth, and where she 
could obtain for life a modest but honor- 
able existence, shaded from the changes 
and caprices of fortune. But she had 
so proudly left the house ; she had 
thanked the superintendent with so 
much assurance j she had declared so 
firmly she wished to try the chances of 
life ; she had announced, with such 
positive clearness, her determination to 
create a position for herself out of this 
grand establishment where she had 
passed her youth, that out of regard to 
herself and the opinion of others she 
felt bound not to return to Saint Denis. 
In this painful uncertainty she thought 
of the first person she had met on leav- 
ing school, into whose house she had 
been welcomed with such perfect grace 
and easy kindness. 

She thought she had almost the right 
to regard this lady as a friend, and, in 
her present situation, a friend was a rare 
and precious article. She made a fresh 
and pretty toilet, for she already knew 
that precisely when we wish to gain 
something from our friends we must not 


excite their pity. She then took the 
cars to Maisons-Lafitte, and reached 
Mine, de l’lsle’s before she had risen. 

If it was already the hour for busi- 
ness, it was not the hour for fashionable 
visits. This Jeanne soon saw from little 
things which by a nature like hers could 
not pass unnoticed. The domestics of 
a great house, unconsciously perhaps, 
do not show the same respect to a lady 
who arrives at ten in the morning as 
they would to one who arrives at four 
in the afternoon. 

Still, in the country, even Parisian 
country, there is always more hospi- 
tality than in the city. They showed 
Mile. Derville into the parlor saloon ; 
she saw at once that everything was dis- 
arranged. The chairs and sofas were 
out of place. Some benches, with gold 
fringe, arranged along the wall, clearly 
indicated that they had received the 
previous evening. 

Jeanne remembered the evening she 
made her debut. Was it not here she 
had taken her first step in life ; that first 
step which the song says we make without 
reflection ? This first step, followed by 
so many others, had led through an 
endless path of flowers, to conduct her 
afterwards by an overwhelming disaster 
to the desolate region where she now 
was. 

The waiting man left her alone a few 
moments, while he sought madame’s 
maid. 

Jeanne gave her name. 

“ Madame slept late this morning,” 
replied the abigail, scrutinizing Jeanne 
from head to foot, “ and I am ordered 
not to enter her room until she rings.” 

“Very well,” said Jeanne, “I will 
wait.” 

“ Perhaps mademoiselle will have to 
wait a long time.” 

“ As long as necessary ; but here is 
my card ; give it to your mistress as 
soon as she awakes.” 

The maid left without another word. 

In a few moments she returned with 
a little joyous, impertinent manner, 
which did not augur happily for the 
young lady. She still held the card 
which Jeanne had given her a few mo- 
ments before. 

“ Fearing mademoiselle might he in 
a hurry,” said she, pertly, “ I have taken 
the liberty of entering madame’s room, 


116 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


and have given her mademoiselle’s card. 
Madame is very sorry, but not having 
the pleasure of knowing mademoiselle, 
she is unable to receive her. If made- 
moiselle comes on business, she will 
please to write, and madame will send 
a reply.” 

Whilst listening to these little, dry, 
cutting sentences, almost insolent, and 
certainly impertinent, which she was far 
from expecting, Jeanne felt such a sud- 
den and painful astonishment, that she 
could not immediately find words to an- 
swer. 

“ Mademoiselle de l’Isle does not 
know me ? she said she did not know 
me !” murmured she. “ Could Mad- 
ame de Blanchelande have written ? 
Have the rich and happy formed a 
league against a poor girl ? Oh ! the 
world — the world ! She does not know 
me ! But, after all, Madame de l’Isle 
owes me nothing. In addressing her I 
have perhaps done wrong. Still, she 
has always seemed so kind and affec- 
tionate.” 

She looked up, and saw the odious 
Abigail standing before her, watching 
with her wicked eyes. This sight re- 
called her from feelings to realities. 
She arose, as if she was deaf and dumb, 
and left the saloon. She met the mas- 
ter of the house in the vestibule as he 
was returning from a walk in the park, 
accompanied by his cousin, a young 
man who had danced with Jeanne. He 
instantly recognised the young lady, and 
made her a profound bow. 

“Who are you saluting?” asked M. 
de l’Isle. 

“ A charming young girl.” 

“ I am perfectly aware of that fact ; 
but that does not tell me her name.” 

“ Her name ? I do not know. All 
I know is that you received her here 
the evening of the races.” 

“ We received a great many.” 

“ She was a friend of Mile. Yictorine 
de Blanchelande, and an old scholar of 
Saint Denis.” 

“ But, then, what is she doing here, 
this morning ?” 

“ That I know no more than yourself. 
All I can say is, that I am very sorry 
she is going away.” 

“Eh! zounds, who sent her away? 
Why is she going?” 

“ In your place, I would ask her.” 


“ My faith ! you are right,” said M. 
de Flsle, rushing off in pursuit of 
Jeanne. 

He reached her as she was going out 
of the gate which separated the park 
from the enclosure around the house. 

“ A thousand pardons, mademoiselle, 
and a thousand regrets !” said he, taking 
off his hat with eager politeness. “I 
have just passed you, and I had the mis- 
fortune not to recognise you at first, al- 
though I now perfectly remember that 
we have had the happiness of receiving 
you.” 

Jeanne was leaving with despair in 
her heart, paleness on her cheeks, tears 
in her eyes. She stopped mechanically ; 
troubled, confused, and much affected, 
she could not answer M. de l’Isle ; but 
her unaffected, charmimg embarrassment 
spoke instead. 

M. de l’Isle, who was not a wicked 
man, felt a sincere, benevolent feeling 
of interest and compassion, for he un- 
derstood some misfortune existed under 
the timid reserve of this beautiful per- 
son. 

“ Come to the aid of my poor memory, 
and deign to inform me to whom I have 
the honor of speaking.” 

“ My name will convey no informa- 
tion !” replied Jeanne, sadly; “they 
have just informed me it was unknown 
to Mme. de l’lsle.” 

“ Some mistake, I am certain, for 
which my wife and myself are not re- 
sponsible.” 

“ I am Mile. Derville.” 

“ Oh ! Mile. Derville ! A scholar of 
Saint Denis; a friend of Mile, de 
Blanchelande, is it not? We have so 
often talked about you, mademoiselle, 
and whatever the motive may be that 
has led you to our house, we are per- 
fectly delighted — Mme. de l’Isle and 
myself — with the happy meeting it has 
procured.” 

Whilst speaking, he offered his arm 
to Jeanne, to lead her back to the house. 
What was simply a mark of politeness, 
appeared to Jeanne a token of sympathy, 
for which she was grateful. Many de- 
ceptions are necessary to the young, to 
prevent them from deluding themselves 
and believing what they desire. 

“Thanks, sir, for your kind words; you 
encourage me to tell you all. I confess 
I feel a great necessity to see Mme. de 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


117 


i’Isle, and at the risk of importuning her 
bo early in the morning, I have sent in 
my card. They informed me that I was 
unknown. I then left.” 

All this was said with perfect sim- 
plicity, but with a moving, sorrowful 
accent, which showed the secret wound 
of the soul. 

M. de l’lsle saw all this. 

“ There is some misunderstanding, 
which will soon be cleared up. I will 
offer you, in advance, all the excuses of 
my wife, who will soon express her re- 
grets. I can answer for her that she is 
not capable of such a thing.” 

They entered. 

Mile. Derville and her former partner 
renewed their acquaintance. M. de 
I’Isle left them chatting, and went to his 
wife’s chamber. He soon returned with 
an air of triumph. 

“ I knew perfectly well,” said he, 
“ that we were the victims of a mistake. 
Madame de l’lsle, half asleep, did not 
understand your name — she recalls it 
now, perfectly. It would have been 
hard to console her if she had not seen 
you. They will lead you to her bou- 
doir.” 

The abigail, formerly so impertinent, 
appeared, and with a sheepish manner 
and an obsequious voice, said : 

“ Madame is waiting for mademoiselle; 
if mademoiselle will be kind enough to 
follow me.” 

She showed Jeanne into a dressing- 
room, which Mme. de l’lsle laughingly 
designated as her working-room, and 
which was as coquettish and elegant as 
the boudoir of a “ petite-maitresse.” 

Notwithstanding she was thirty, Mme. 
de l’lsle wore her own hair, curled, and 
did not use powder or rouge, just as the 
good God had been pleased to make her. 

She was still beautiful, which, per- 
haps, aided her in being kind. Con- 
tented with herself, she was pleased with 
others, and wished to please all around 
her. She gave Jeanne a charming wel- 
come, was most happy to meet her again, 
and hoped she would see her at all the 
balls and parties she intended giving 
next winter. When she had finished, 
in a soft tone, all her pretty speeches, 
which Jeanne took care not to inter- 
rupt : 

“ Now tell me why you have come to 
see me, this morning, my dear little one 


— and all alone — this is singular. Where 
is your charming friend?” 

“ The ladies Blanchelande are at pre- 
sent in Italy. But life which is only 
full of pleasure for them, is only full of 
duties for me. I have left them” — 

Mme. de l’lsle gave a start of sur- 
prise, and her manner became distant. 

We should state that looking upon 
Jeanne’s uncertain position, the woman 
of the world, only slightly acquainted 
with the young girl, showed at first a 
reserve, unmingled, however, with hos- 
tility or spite. 

Jeanne perceived this, although Mme. 
de l’lsle, after her first involuntary 
movement, inquired kindly into her 
plans, and showed her every encourage- 
ment. Jeanne told her all she could 
without betraying the sad secret of her 
heart. 

“I am poor, madame,” added she, as 
she finished her painful story. u I have 
see a my hopes fade day by day, and am 
no longer the one yow used to know. I 
am penniless, end< /ed, they tell me, 
with much intelli. ;nce, passably well 
informed, and I must confess that I am 
obliged to support myself by what I 
have learned ” 

This revelation singularly annoyed 
Mme. de l’lsle. She was not an ill- 
natured woman; on the contrary rather 
kind-hearted. But this very ordinary 
sort of goodness is not very laudable, 
for it rarely extends into good actions. 
She had a weakness not unusual — she 
loved to see people happy — she must 
always be surrounded with gaiety and 
parties. Her house was the rendezvous 
of youth and fortune. She did all in 
her power to render life a never-ending 
fete. The ’warmth of her reception was 
always in proportion to the degree of 
splendor or eclat one could give to her 
receptions. Her existence commenced 
only at ten in the evening ! Gas-lights 
seemed her natural element — her true 
sun was a chandelier! 

On seeing enter her saloon, under the 
chaperonage of Mme. de Blanchelande, 
this Mme. Derville, whose name sounded 
well, and who was full of grace and 
the brightness* of youth, she had hoped 
to find in her a valuable recruit. This 
was the secret of the enthusiasm she 
had displayed to the pupil of Saint 
Denis. The inexperience of the young 


118 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


girl made her an easy captive. And 
what young girl in her place would not 
have yielded ? 

But now when Jeanne laid before 
her the most terrible of all wants — that 
of fortune, which caused with it the 
loss of all the joys and elegancies of 
this life, which was absolutely the life 
of Mme. de l’lsle, the face of things 
was much altered. She had too much 
tact to allow these impressions to be 
seen. Such a change could not take 
place to-day nor to-morrow — it must be 
gradual. But who better than a woman 
understands this admirable science of 
dissimulation, and thus giving a differ- 
ent coloring to their true thoughts ? 
One can now have a proof. 

“ Truly all this is very sad, my dear 
child, ” said she, after listening to Jeanne 
with great attention, “ and I really do 
not know what to advise under such 
serious circumstances.” 

“ The first thing I have imposed upon 
myself,” said Jeanne, “ is to bid farewell 
to all the fascinating dreams usually 
indulged in by young girls of my age. 
This I have done. When the necessity 
of a thing is presented, my part is taken, 
and I decide without fear or murmur. 
I should much prefer a thousand 
pounds income to working for my living, 
but labor is the fate of all who are not 
the favorites of fortune and of destiny. 
I am aware of this, and I submit — I 
only ask God one thing, that he may 
always give me the work I need.” 

Jeanne’s noble nature rose above her 
trials ; and there was such strength in 
her words, that Mme. de l’lsle was 
amazed. Her friends were not formed 
on this model, they were of an entirely 
different type. She was seized with a 
fit of enthusiasm for Mile. Derville — it 
was a most complete sudden revival of 
her interest in the young girl. Mme. 
de l’lsle was perfectly sincere at this 
moment ; she found herself called to play 
a role in her circle, which she would 
enjoy so well. 

What pretty phrases she could use on 
the subject of the labor, virtue, and 
misfortunes of poor young girls ! 

Jeanne especially; so pretty — the 
pupil of Saint Denis — the daughter of 
a colonel who married for love, and died 
without fortune ! Hers was a case of 
great interest — the client was worthy of 


the advocate. Constance (this was Mme. 
de l’lsle’s name) felt like thanking 
Jeanne for the good she would enable 
her to accomplish. Behold, what it is 
to have a beautiful soul ! 

“ My dear child,” said she to Mile. 
Derville, taking both her hands, “ these 
are noble words, and I honor you for 
such thoughts. I pity with all my 
heart, those who do not understand your 
dignified conduct and your noble resolu- 
tions. I regard it as my duty, in such 
circumstances, to come to your aid ; I 
wish to see you quickly gain the position 
you so well deserve.” 

Unfortunate people are always sensi- 
tive, they feel grateful for the slightest 
interest. Jeanne warmly thanked Mme. 
de l’lsle. 

“I shall keep you here all day ; you 
have nothing to do in Paris — Paris now 
is unendurable and deserted. Besides, 
we must arrange our plans. You will 
agree to this, I hope.” 

“ I place myself in your hands,” said 
the young girl, pressing the hand Mme. 
de l’lsle extended. 

Her beautiful protectress rang the 
bell ; the maid appeared. 

“ Say that mademoiselle will break- 
fast here, and do you return to dress 
me.” Then turning to Jeanne : “ You, 
my dear beauty, will please go into my 
boudoir ; you will find some books — re- 
views, magazines — and then I will not 
be long, I hope.” 

Jeanne went into the boudoir, and 
turned the leaves of an album without 
noticing its coutents. She forgot the 
disappointments of her first hopes, and 
gave herself up to a confidence, which 
nothing can crush in the soul of the 
young. 

Disappointments wound, but they 
never kill. Mme. de 1’Isle hastened 
through her toilet, and appeared in a 
morning u negligee,” which her ad- 
mirers called adorable. The two ladies 
went down into the garden, which was 
as large as a park, gracefully, lightly, 
joyously, like two sisters. Constance 
longed to enter into her role — she was 
as impatient as a pupil of the Conserva- 
tory, who feels she has talent, and to 
whom they have promised a debut in 
the French opera. She wished she was 
already on the boards 1 

In a few words, Mme. de l’lsle ex- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


119 


plained the matter to her husband and 
cousin. They could only reproach her 
with too much emphasis, and for not 
sparing Jeanne’s blushes, who dared not 
interrupt, but who suffered at hearing 
this eulogium in her presence. 

M. de l’lsle took the thing to heart 
as well as his wife, and promised his 
services. The cousin uttered some sen- 
timental, well turned sentences, that he 
thought* very appropriate. Jeanne 
could understand them if she pleased, 
but Blanchelande and Maxence de Bois- 
Bobert was still too near her heart ; be- 
sides, she was surrounded by the cares 
of the future, and her soul was too 
heavy for any lighter thoughts. 

Constance invited her to stay at the 
villa. Where could she be better off? 
But experience had taught the young 
girl, and she never again desired to 
share the hospitalities of the rich. She 
thanked her warmly, but wished to wait 
at the hotel until the kind promises of 
her new protectress should be carried 
out. 

It was certainly the most dignified, 
but perhaps the less politic course. 

Mme. de l’lsle was one of those, to 
whom the old proverb of “ out of sight 
out of mind” so truly applies. If 
Jeanne had remained near her, being 
thus a living reminder -of her promise, 
she would have taken an active part on 
her behalf. Jeanne did not dream of 
this. It is one’s duty, however, to 
dream of everything. 

Mile. Dervilie reached home, after a 
pleasant journey, less sad than when 
she left. Seeing a glimmer of hope in 
the horizon of her life. She said to 
herself, that with the best will in the 
world, Mme. de l’lsle could not find a 
suitable position for her to-day or to- 
morrow. She subdued her impatience, 
and taught herself to wait. 


CHAPTER IV. 

T\rAJTINGr, however, seemed in- 
H terminable. Not knowing what 
to do, too timid to go out alone ; not 
daring to form acquaintances in the 
hotel that might prove dangerous ; she 
remained alone in the privacy of her 
own room. Since she had left school, 
this was the first time she had been left 


entirely alone. Solitude hung heavily 
on her. The evenings were supremely 
intolerable; and the night, in which she 
did not sleep, dragged with desperate 
slowness. She followed the example of 
all idlers, and sent to the circulating 
library for a novel. 

It was the first one she had ever read, 
and she was charmed. 

In all ages, and to all temperaments, 
the works of the imagination exercise 
a powerful influence. On a young, ar- 
dent, impressionable mind like Jeanne 
Derville’s, their influence is still greater. 
The romance throws her into an entirely 
new world of .passion, and of dreams 
which is better than the other world ; 
one where poetry takes the trouble to 
arrange life, and reality comes after- 
wards and changes all. Predisposed to 
romantic impressions by her first unfor- 
tunate love, which still governed the 
poor creature, she liked, especially, to 
cherish all the chimeras of true love, 
and to renew the proud, heroic, ardent, 
disinterested feelings, which so happily 
replace that which we have, with that 
we wish to have. 

Romance is not demoralizing, as a 
multitude of honest men would make 
us believe, and who fight against it, be- 
cause they have not studied it. 

Its danger is not in its attacks on 
virtue, for in these days it respects vir- 
tue. But the peril is as great, though 
it comes from a higher source. It is in 
this thirst for the ideal, that it kindles 
in our natures, which nothing after can 
satisfy or destroy. 

In a day and a night, Jeanne de- 
voured six volumes, with feverish eager- 
ness. The librarian, who had the 
strong instinct of one who lives on the 
passions of others, understood at once 
that his new patron would prove a good 
customer. So, when she returned the 
book, he himself chose her another, 
which she carried home, and soon be- 
came equally absorbed in. 

This life lasted for eight days, and 
they passed like a dream. 

Her eyes became red, and her cheeks 
pale, but she experienced an intense 
sensation of an unknown life — one 
which fairly carried her away. It was 
like the opening of womanhood in a 
young girl. In this engrossing chain 
of thoughts, she partially forgot Blan- 


120 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


chelande, the Maisons-Lafitte somewhat, 
and Avranches entirely — This ungrate- 
ful lady fair ! 

Alongside of these heroes of romance, 
so constant in their tenderness, so full 
of their love, so firm in the midst of their 
thousand trials, so devoted in their misfor- 
tunes, Maxence appeared very tame, and 
little worthy of this affection, approach- 
ing ^worship, that her young soul had so 
hastily dedicated to him ! She was 
forced to acknowledge to herself, that 
she was worthy something better than 
he was; and what she deserved, life 
might, perhaps, one day give her. On 
each page of these fascinating books did 
she not see young girls without fortune, 
(like herself, placed like her to experi- 
ence a thousand trials), end always by 
meeting the man of their dreams and 
of their choice, and by attaining the 
ideal end of all young ladies' desires — 
a marriage for love — which is happiness 
in duty. 

One of those paltry realities from 
which poor Jeanne was so glad to escape, 
called her suddenly from heaven to 
earth. 

The mistress of the hotel, though 
much edified by the appearance, man- 
ners, and quietness of her beautiful 
boarder, sent her, nevertheless, at the 
end of the week, her little account; 
which, composed of innumerable small 
details, formed a frightful total. 

This miserable question of accounts, 
though overlooked by the novelists, on 
whose works Jeanne had feasted, were 
quite as embarrassing to settle. 

This is what rendered Rabelais’s fa- 
mous quarter of an hour so painful. 

“Well, indeed !” said Mile. Derville, 
after adding up the too exact column, 
“at the rate I am going, Iwould find my- 
self on a bed of straw in a month. This 
little room costs the prme of a house in 
the provinces — I must act immediately. 
And this Mme. de l’lsle has forgotten 
me, after all her promises and protes- 
tations. Oh, these worldly people ! they 
are all alike ! Happily, Maisons-Lafitte 
is not two hundred miles away from 
Paris.” 

She decided to visit the villa of the 
beautiful Constance the next day, only 
she did not wish to arrive at the beggars’ 
hour, as she had formerly done, but at 
the visiting hour of friends, acquaint- 


ances, and equals. Experience must 
teach something. • 

though the coquettish habitation was 
noli far from the station, Jeanne hired a 
carriage, so as not to be seen arriving 
on foot; if by chance there should be 
visitors. She now knew that the best 
way to obtain anything from people, is 
to seem not to need it. 

She rang the bell with an assurance 
that astonished herself, and made her 
smile at her emotions on her previous 
visit. A little thing suffices to influ- 
ence our moral dispositions, and to change 
them entirely. If any one had asked 
Jeanne the reason of these new feel- 
ings, she could not have answered the 
question. She felt them — that was all. 

Usually, at the first sound of the 
bell, a movement was to be seen inside, 
the vestibule door would open, a muti- 
nous head of some woman would appear 
at a window, two footmen would be 
seen on the stone steps, while the gate- 
keeper, leaving a rustic lodge, built like 
a hut, and half hidden by glycerine and 
vines, would run with the keys in his hand. 

This time, there was nothing of all 
that. Not a window opened — not a door 
creaked — no person appeared. It might 
have been called the castle of the 
Sleeping Beauty of the woods. 

“ Are they all dead ?” asked Mile. 
Derville with a feeling of uneasiness. 
“What does this mean?” She rang a 
second time and much louder. 

The door-keeper, who united with his 
humble employment that of “ the intend- 
ant of gardens,” as the solemn Boileau 
calls it, came with slow steps from the 
depths of his domain, and without troub- 
ling himself to open the door asked J eanne 
through the grating, how he could serve 
her. 

“ I wish to see madame ?” 

“ She is not here.” 

“Will she return soon ?” 

“ Not that I am aware of.” 

“ She is not then at home.” 

“ No.”' 

“ And monsieur?” 

“ Monsieur is also away. I am the 
only person in the villa.” 

“ Where have they gone?” 

“ To the South, to pay a visit to mad- 
ame’s mother.” 

“ Do they expect to stay away a long 
time ?” 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


121 


“ For the rest of the season. They 
only started yesterday morning.” 

Jeanne got into her carriage. 

“ To the depot,” said she, to tne 
coachman ; and whilst shutting the car- 
riage-door, she murmured, “ Fate is 
against me !” 

She regained the station with a sad 
heart. She who had left twenty min- 
utes before, in such a contented, joyous 
frame of mind. 

She had calculated so surely on the 
good offices of Constance, and relied 
on her more than she had ever done on 
any one, that her abrupt departure 
struck her a sudden blow more cruel 
than all the rest. 

“ To go away, without leaving one 
word for me, is a mark of neglect that 
I did not deserve. All the same — even 
the best. They wish me to feel the 
distance between us. It would have 
been very easy before leaving to have 
done what I asked. To write a few 
lines, to speak a good word to the mo- 
ther of some young lady of fortune — 
and she has not thought of it. She has 
thought only of her hats and dresses, 
but not at all of me. Well, then, where- 
in have I sinned against God, that I 
should be so unfortunate ? Yet they 
say . that he is the Father of all.” 

Mile. Derville returned home unhap- 
py, but far from being discouraged. She 
felt the contest with fate become more 
and more difficult; but she summoned 
all her strength and energy to her aid 
at this critical moment, One thing she 
saw perfectly, that she could not afford 
to wait any longer. Now was the time 
to display all her forces. 

It was the time to act. To act — how 
many difficulties lie under that little 
word ! 

CHAPTER Y. 

D O you know anything harder for 
a young, honest, modest, well- 
born girl, than the necessity of intro- 
ducing herself from house to house, 
inquiring of people, “ Do you by any 
chance need a governess, a teacher, a 
young lady as a companion ?” 

The thought of Gravis came back to 
her mind. She remembered his offer 
of marriage, which had made her smile, 
and it seemed as if an insidious voice 


whispered in her ear„ u That would have 
been bread and a shelter.” 

“ Well, no,” said she, after half a 
second’s reflection ; “ everything, every- 
thing, rather than that !” 

She rang for the chambermaid who 
waited on her, and sent her to the 
library, but not this time for one of the 
romances that'had made her time fly away. 
No, the book she sent for was marked 
with a most prosaic title of modern life; 
of Parisian life. It was simply the 
dictionary of twenty-five thousand ad- 
dresses — the Directory ! » 

Jeanne turned it with a feverish hand, 
and read the names of all the schoolmis- 
tresses in Paris. 

Armed with her diploma, she com- 
menced next morning her round of em- 
barrassing visits. Every one received 
her politely, but coldly ; and every- 
where, under one pretext or another, 
she saw herself condemned. 

“ Quite too young !” “Already too 
old!” Also, whilst rendering justice to 
the excellent house where she had been 
educated, they pretended it was behind 
the times in the education of youth. 
They feared these early impressions 
would keep with her, and that she could 
not conform to the latest ideas. With 
some she would have suited perfectly, 
but all the places were engaged. Others 
required that all their teachers should be 
Protestants. 

All found some pretext against her, 
and she suited none. Each new refusal 
sunk into her heart like a thorn, but she 
was resolute in carrying out her sad ex- 
ploration. However rude the voyage 
may be, it is always the first step that 
costs the most. 

She had nearly finished her list when 
the carriage stopped at a door, on which 
she read, in letters, at least half a foot 
long, this inscription, “ Boarding School 
for Young Ladies.” 

Jeanne entered a house of modest ap- 
pearance, which had none of the luxury, 
elegance, or comfort of those she had 
visited before. Nothing of the imposing 
dignity to which Saint Denis had accus- 
tomed her young pupil. Our heroine, 
still young enough to feel vividly the 
impressions of material things, experi- 
enced an indefinable, but real uneasiness. 

A doorkeeper introduced her into the 
little parlor, whose paper had not been 


122 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


changed for half a century, and whose 
furniture belonged to the different 
epochs of French industry. Mile. Der- 
ville examined all this in five minutes, 
when she saw before her the majestic 
person of Mme. Ernestine de Sainte 
Colombe. She was the head of the 
school. Mme. de Sainte Colombe had 
been beautiful ; she had not forgotten 
this, and others could still see traces of 
it ; but she had unfortunately an em- 
bonpoint as precocious as disagreeable, 
which spoilt the harmony of her for- 
merly straight and perfect figure. So 
much for her physique. 

For her intellectual character all we 
can say now is, that Mme. de Sainte Co- 
lombe was a pretentious “ bluestocking.” 
She wrote for some small -magazines, 
and had, at this time, only one idea : it 
was to obtain a competent person to su- 
perintend her scholars so that she could 
devote herself entirely to what she called 
her more important works. 

Perhaps Jeanne’s appearance pleased 
her — or she might have been daz- 
zled by the title of Scholar of Saint 
Denis — or perhaps she thought her a 
yielding person, who would carry out her 
wishes. At any rate, she accepted her 
services at once. 

Situated in a street the least grand of 
the neighborhood of the pretentious and 
bourgeoise church — like the epoch it was 
built in — that of Notre Dame de Lo- 
rette, the school of Mme. de Sainte Co- 
lombe nourished the minds and souls 
and th^ bodies of forty young girls, who 
belonged to the tradespeople of thai 
quarter. The charges were moderate — 
this charmed the parents — but as it 
always is with this mistaken economy, 
they had little for their money. 

“ We live here like one family,” said 
the directress to the new mistress, show- 
ing the visitor the house. “ I have daily 
professors — this young lady whom you 
see in the garden, is from Ireland— she 
teaches English. I have taught the 
higher branches — you will take my 
place — It is no sinecure, but you seem 
industrious, and God has not put us into 
this world to do nothing. We women — 
we all have our mission here below — 
mine is to write !” said she with em- 
phasis. 

Jeanne bowed her head, without re- 
plying. 


“ I lodge, wash, feed, and give lights,” 
continued Mme. de Sainte Colombe, 
“ and I give 400 francs to the Irish girl 
— but the Irish girl is not a scholar of 
Saint Denis, as you are. I know all that 
must be paid for — and especially these 
splendid diplomas ! I will give you, 
then, six hundred francs — as an excep- 
tion. Will this suit?” 

“ Very well,” said Jeanne, who had 
not the means to refuse. 

For a young girl who in a week would 
have had no place to lay her head, six 
hundred francs, lodging and food was an 
unhoped-for good. It was an unexpected 
stroke of fortune. Jeanne thought she 
had no right to refuse, and accepted the 
situation, perhaps rather hastily, and 
without inquiring enough about the 
school. 

“ When shall I come ?” asked she, 
with an eagerness which gave a high 
idea of her zeal. 

“ When you please — as soon as possi- 
ble — to-morrow morning — or, better still, 
this evening? I am finishing an im- 
portant article for a review — and I have 
little time to myself. You will teach 
the first class to-morrow, at ten o’clock.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

J EANNE left Mme. de Sainte Co- 
lombe, to arrange her affairs, which 
would not take long. She did every- 
thing in a joyous haste ! Had she not, 
at last, gained the height of her desires : 
work — the means of obtaining her live- 
lihood — the ability to eat bread that she 
owed only to herself? 

It was, undoubtedly, humble, but 
still, it was a situation ! and after so 
many fruitless efforts, and all kinds of 
disappointments, she could not be hard 
to please. 

An hour later, all was arranged at the 
hotel, and the same caraiage she had 
employed in the morning took her hum- 
ble baggage to the institution of Mme. 
de Sainte Colombe. 

The room of a young teacher of a 
fourth-class school is not usually very 
luxurious. Jeanne’s was furnished in 
the scantiest manner. It was only a 
garret, just under the roof, with but 
strictly indispensable furniture. Jeanne 
opened a window, to air the place shut 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


123 


up for so long a time, and saw a horizon 
of stove-funnels, hideously ugly, and 
bodies of monumental-looking chimneys. 
She missed the views at Blanchelande, 
where the eye reposed so gratefully on 
the waving summits of green forests, 
and the majestic figure of Mount Saint 
Michael, beneath which one could see 
the infinite sand and boundless ocean, 
and the garden of the Rosery. 

“ Pshaw !” said she ; “ I only come 
here to sleep, and one can dream with- 
out a landscape before them.” 

Jeanne was somewhat of a philoso- 
pher, which was well — she tried to 
make the best of everything. Besides, 
no matter how miserable this poor little 
room might be, it was the first home of 
her own she had ever known; and this 
made it valuable to a proud and even 
slightly haughty spirit, who had suf- 
fered in feeling herself always in the 
houses of others. She took possession 
with a sincere feeling of independence. 
She was, perhaps, a near neighbor of the 
other teacher. But in Paris, space is 
very precious; besides, she could always 
close the door. 

Jeanne slept sweetly and peacefully 
on her hard bed. 

The next morning, Mme. de Sainte 
Colombe, who desired to do everything 
in the best manner, presented the new 
mistress to her class. 

We have already stated this estab- 
lishment was not an aristocratic institu- 
tion. It was filled with the children 
of trades-people, who are not yet con- 
vinced, that to save on the education of 
their children, is more ruinous than 
prodigality. The number was not large 
enough to be divided into classes, there- 
fore, all the scholars, no matter how old, 
or how advanced, took their lessons in 
common, which made the teacher’s 
duties very arduous — obliged to interest 
the elder, whilst making the youngest 
understand. What madame called her 
first class, was a mere figure of speech, 
in which she often indulged. The 
scholars were ill-bred and stupid. 
Jeanne felt she ought to have remained 
at St. Denis if she wished to teach, 
where everything was well arranged, 
and teaching a pleasure. Here it was 
simply a task. But she resolved not to 
be discouraged, and increased her 
energy and zeal. 


“ You are over good,” said the young 
Irish teacher, her companion in work 
and misery. “ You are really over 
good, to take so much trouble for these 
young monkeys. Look at me, and fol- 
low my example. It will be all the 
same at the end of the year. I give 
them a lesson every day, two hours 
long, with my watch in my hand. I 
never cheat them of one minute. I 
thus gain my soup and beef. Let those 
heed who will. My part is done. Each 
one for herself.” 

As Alice O’Farrell, for that was the 
young teacher’s name, uttered these 
words, she laughed long and bitterly, 
showing Jeanne her little white teeth, 
which were sharp and pointed like a 
cat’s. 

• Jeanne examined her more atten- 
tively than she had ever done. The 
under-teacher of Mme. de Sainte Co- 
lombe was a perfect type of these beau- 
tiful daughters of Erin, whom the 
novelist dreams of, and the traveller 
sees along the Giant’s Causeway, in the 
Lakes of Killarney, or the River Shan- 
non, and in the streets of Dublin, of 
Cork, and of Galway. With tall, slim, 
elegant, noble figures, charming expres- 
sion, curled wavy hair around the tem- 
ples, intellectual brows, bright eyes, and 
notwithstanding so many sorrows and 
deaths, a smile on the arch lip, with 
open nostrils, breathing frankness, cour- 
age, and energy. Alice was all this. 
Her face paled by the contest of life; 
her little mouth seeming to be made for 
silence rather than speech; her little 
bright almond^ shape eyes, all showed to 
the attentive observer a reserved self- 
possessed woman, who had suffered 
much, and who had been soured by her 
trials. Unhappiness affects people very 
differently. Some natures it softens, 
others it turns into stone. 

“ Perhaps, with a little patience,” 
said Jeanne, “we may make something 
of these children.” 

“ Try ! mademoiselle, if you have 
good seed to sow, I will not hinder you.” 

“ I shall certainly try, for it is our 
duty to do all we can for them, as we 
would have wished others to do for us.” 

“ As if these common children would 
appreciate all the trouble you take ! Do 
not be afraid, they will receive the worth 
of their money.” 


124 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ Oil ! mademoiselle ! liow can you 
speak so? You are so naughty !” 

“ I was not always so. My life has 
altered me. Wait, before you judge. 

“ When you have been hardened as 
long as I, you will become a machine. 
As for Mme. de Sainte Colombe, who is 
neither Madame, Sainte, npr Colombe, 
and whose name would belong as well 
to your old shoe, you will learn many 
beautiful things about her.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Oh ! nothing — you have eyes — you 
can see, I suppose/’ 

“ It seems as if they were useless to 
me, for I confess I have seen nothing/’ 

“ Indeed ! but where, if you please, 
did you inquire about the character of 
this establishment ?” 

“ Where did you ?” 

“ Oh, as for me, I made no inquiries. 
What could I do ? I landed here from 
England without one cent. I had been 
through many troubles — I needed bread. 
But you who seem well off — for you are 
well dressed — how came you to do so ?” 

“ It is not necessary to come from 
England, mademoiselle, to be sometimes 
very much embarrassed.” 

“ Oh, then, I understand ; but just 
think there is only one house in all 
Paris like this, and we are here — here 
both of us.” 

Alice’s allusions excited Jeanne’s cu- 
riosity, and she thought she must be in 
the plot of some novel ; but she would 
ask no questions. Mile. Derville was 
willing to receive confidences, but she 
would never draw people out. Alice 
visited her, however, every evening, and 
chatted away while she drank her tea 
which she had obtained from the con- 
fectioner. It was not exactly the com- 
pany she would have chosen, but it was 
the best she could get in the establish- 
ment of Mme. Ernestine de Sainte 
Colombe. Alice amused her, and car- 
ried her out of herself by her lively 
sallies of fun. She became pale and 
thin in this atmosphere of captivity — 
allowed only every other Sunday to 
herself, and Jeanne had one Sunday — 
Alice the other. If they only could 
have gone out together. For where 
could she go alone ? Nowhere. So she 
nearly always spent her Sundays at 
home, reading a little and dreaming a 
great deal. These days were not happy, 


and she preferred the monotonous rou- 
tine of the week. 

We have only mentioned the feminine 
portions of this establishment, but there 
were also some wolves in this sheep-fold. 
These wolves were tl&e masters, the pro- 
fessors of music and drawing. The 
pianist stood alone. He was a South- 
erner with sparkling black eyes, fine 
profile, thin as a rail, yellow as a guinea, 
with long black hair; and who, notwith- 
standing the absurdity of his appear- 
ance, had been very successful with 
women, especially the under-teachers in 
the schools where he was admitted ; he 
was particularly dangerous for this class 
of females. Truth obliges us to ac- 
knowledge that the young Irish girl had 
yielded to the magnetic charm of his 
eye ! The professor of drawing seemed 
to honor only Mme. de Sainte Colombe 
with his especial attention. He might 
be called a pretty old bachelor, with 
rather too much color, and rather high 
shoulders. He was a great favorite 
with Mme. de Sainte Colombe — he made 
the good and bad weather of the house. 
Jeanne could not help suspecting evil; 
and she suffered with the discovery. 

But as she was not in a position to ex- 
amine too closely, she dismissed her 
painful suspicions and devoted herself 
to her own duties, without interfering 
with others. 


CHAPTER VII. 

B UT circumstances stronger than her- 
self, would not permit her to enjoy 
the fruits of such wise, prudent conduct. 
Rollina, this was the name of this Love- 
lace of the piano, not satisfied with one 
conquest, unable to resist Jeanne’s 
charms, perhaps rather tired of Miss O’ 
Farrell’s sentimental importunities, or 
he might have been a partisan butterfly 
of Fourier’s ; at any rate, it pleased him 
to pass one evening in France, and the 
next in Ireland. To-day with Alice, to- 
morrow with Jeanne. He did not fail 
to employ his fine eyes on the colonel’s 
daughter. His attentions, quiet enough 
at first, became so warm it was necessary 
to repress them. Jeanne was not in the 
slightest danger from such fascinations, 
they rather disgusted her ; and she 
treated them with perfect disdain — she 
saw that the young Irish girl would be 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


125 


worried by these attentions, that only 
annoyed her — for Alice loved him truly 
— and one knows that real true love is 
often jealous. She thought her idol 
so perfect, that every woman who saw 
him must adore him, and she did not 
credit Jeanpe’s disinterestedness. 

Jeanne, finding her efforts unavailing, 
and that Alice still regarded her with 
suspicion, preserved a cold, haughty si- 
lence towards her. She regretted this, 
as it added to her troubles, and cut off 
the pleasant chats and comfort they had 
found in each other’s society. 

Instead of being a mutual aid and 
strength to each other as heretofore, the 
two girls displayed that silent hostility 
which makes the society of one we have 
formerly enjoyed so disagreeable. And 
they were not only obliged to meet, but 
to be thrown into irritating relation- 
ships every moment. They both felt that 
if they gave up their situations, they 
would have no place to shelter them- 
selves — they were in a strait where they 
could not change. Bad as it was, it had 
been hard to find ; indeed, now that all 
the schools had commenced, almost im- 
possible. 

Mme. de l’lsle was still away, as she 
had not heard from her ; and at any rate, 
her pride would not permit her to seek 
her again. Her first step had already 
cost too much, and she could not hum- 
ble herself again to those who had for- 
merly met her as an equal. 

Jeanne’s eyes once opened did not 
shut — ignorant of vice and hating it by 
instinct, she was obliged to assist at it 
each day, and authorize it in some way 
by her presence. An honest, pure soul 
could not experience a harder trial — and 
for Jeanne to endure it for so long, 
showed the force of necessity. 

Hopeless of finding another asylum, 
she took refuge in her own conscience, 
and by her strict performance of duty, 
put those in the wrong, who judg- 
ing only by appearances, might form an 
unfavorable opinion of her — they should 
be the guilty ones, not she — the course 
she took was the only one in her power, 
but her soul revolted proudly from it. 
Young souls need to feel themselves sur- 
rounded by propriety and respect, and 
they suffer in being deprived of the 
most precious of all these gifts. 

But however painful her determina- 


tion, Jeanne kept on till the end; the 
end meaning the last day of the year — 
then she would have accomplished her 
hard task, and have marched nobly 
through her laborious career — after this 
she could show herself with dignity to 
her friends — and to her enemies, if she 
had them — she would have lived by her 
own work, the most honorable way in 
the world. She would also have a little 
sum left, fruit of her wisdom and econo- 
my, for she did not spend one cent ; thus 
all her little wealth accumulated from 
month to month in Madame de Sainte 
Colombe’s hands. 


CHAPTER VIII 

A N unexpected catastrophe upset 
once more “ Perette’s pot of milk.” 
Madame de Sainte Colombe, although, 
as she asserted, for many years a widow, 
found herself (without being able to 
give an entirely satisfactory moral ex- 
planation ) in a situation that only one 
man in the world had the right to find 
“ interesting,” although this is the term 
by which it is usually characterized. 

Whenever it is possible we all unite 
in dooming our rivals to the sternest 
fate. Human* selfishness displays itself 
there in it& most savage forms — I say, 
frankly, with its greatest ferocity. We 
often use the expression “ Battle of 
Life,” the title of Charles Dickens’ 
strange romance, where is described 
most truly the social contest until the 
hour of death, which becomes more and 
more one of the essential conditions of 
mortal existence. To conquer or to die ! 
This old melodramatic formula is, to-day, 
only an exact geometrical statement. 

They march with crowded ranks, 
shoulder to shoulder, advanced bayonets. 
Evil to those who fall ! they are trodden 
under foot! To be Wounded is death. 
There is no room for pity in the thun- 
dering rapidity of action — the living 
walls of the phalanx who fight close up 
to the breaches, and to gain the goal of 
victory rush over the dead bodies of 
their companions in arms, who will never 
rise again. 

Mme. de Sainte Colombe’s misfortune 
was received with malicious hilarity by 
all it could benefit. They spread it at 
first by little wicked insinuations, which 


126 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


grew into threatening rumors; then, 
when the event was more known through 
the quarter, a regular denunciation was 
made to the administrative authorities 
and the clergy. It raised the most 
powerful and dangerous influences 
against the directress, for they were 
somehow obliged to dismiss her. A 
severe example must be made of her. 

Madame de Sainte Colomba soon dis- 
covered all this, and determined on in- 
stant flight. 

She left the very day that the autho- 
rities would have forced her to leave. 
But as she knew that the drawing-mas- 
ter, the author of all her woes, had less 
fortune than love, she considered it was 
absolutely necessary to save all the cash. 

She saved it ! 

She carried off all that she could, 
leaving her debts as an inheritance to 
her creditors. 

Jeanne suffered the most, and com- 
plained the least — for the mistress, in 
her flight, had carried off all the savings 
of the young girl. There was no one 
to help her; and as she did not wish to 
be mixed up in these affairs, she re- 
mained quiet. The girls were all 
removed by their indignant relations. 
Some declared their daughters’ educa- 
tion finished ; the rest * were divided 
among the different schools of the quar- 
ter. It is an eternal fated law of life — 
the happiness of some is always made 
out of the misfortunes of others ! 

“ Ah ! my Rollina, I belong now en- 
tirely to you,” exclaimed the impulsive 
Alice, when she first heard of their 
patroness’s discomfiture. 

But the pianist did not seem over- 
joyed at this declaration, for he received 
the happy news of the poor girl very 
coldly. His reply fell like cold water 
on the warmth of the Irish girl. 

“ Liberty is often fatal to love,” said 
he, “ and if women knew their true in- 
terests they would be far from desiring 
it. One loves and desires what is hard 
to obtain ; one must not meet too easily, 
if one wishes to meet always with plea- 
sure. This is sad, but true. Look what 
happens in njarriage — how often it fails 
to render people happy. The best 
assorted couples generally end by getting 
tired of each other. Besides, for you 
and me, little one ! work is a necessity, 
not a luxury ; and if we were together 


we would not work much, we would pass 
our time in making lovfe. I know, for 
my part, I could do nothing else.” 

“ Oh, if what you said was only true !” 
said the young Irish girl, joining her 
hands with a passionate movement, “I 
would be too happy — and would consent 
to all.” 

“ Consent then,” said Rollina, smooth- 
ing with his hand the waving hair of 
the young girl. 

Alice knew well the cold energy and 
determined will which Rollina possessed, 
but her secret desire was to live hence- 
forward near the man to whom she had 
given her life. 

But he, who had for some time fan- 
cied another, did not care to accept the 
dangerous sacrifice. He told her they 
must both take care of their names, and 
preserve the respect of the world, and 
it was only the rich who had the right 
to 'compromise themselves. He ended 
by placing her in a strict school where 
he did not give lessons, which disembar- 
rassed him of her almost entirely. 

The pianist had seen for a long time 
that he had no chance with Jeanne, so 
he had ceased to think of her ; waiting, 
perhaps, for better times to realize his 
first hopes. 

Alice had returned to her affection for 
Jeanne. 

“ I have not always been good to 
you,” she said, when saying good-bye to 
Jeanne ; “ will you forgive me ? I was 
very unhappy.” 

“ I saw that,” replied Jeanne, press- 
ing her hand. “We will forget all 
now, and if we never meet again — may 
we think kindly of each other.” 

“ Oh ! you are so much better than 
I am !” said Miss O’Farrell, throwing 
herself on her neck. 

“ No, dear little friend, I am not bet- 
ter than you, but I have had more ex- 1 
perience. I have already suffered so 
much, and I do not wish to cause suffer- 
ing to others.” 

“ Oh ! if it had not been for M. 
Rollina I should never have given you 
trouble.” 

“ Be satisfied, dear Alice, M. Rollina 
can never be anything to me, and I will 
not dispute him with you — but, my poor 
little one !” — . 

“ Well ! what? Make haste ! What 
do you wish to say ?” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


127 


(l Alas ! do not rely too much on men 
— the best are not worth a great deal — 
and I do not know if M. Rollina is one 
of the best.” 

“ I love him !” 

“ Then, dear ! if you will be unhappy, 
try and be as little so as possible.” 

Alice went to the place Rollina had 
obtained for her the same day, and 
Jeanne was left in that precarious, un- 
certain condition which seemed to be 
her fate. This new trial seemed more 
painful than the others. When misfor- 
tune redoubles its blow, it ends by con- 
quering the most energetic natures 
They resist at first, then they succumb 
— it is the law of nature. 


CHAPTER IX. 

J EANNE felt more timid than ever 
when she thought of the disgrace 
which surrounded the school. She 
thought the shame of the directress 
might reflect on the teachers. Where 
could she now go ? What recommenda- 
tions could she offer ? To be known 
thus was a hundred times worse than not 
to be known at all. 

The poor child did not know what to 
do. She remembered that the young 
Irish girl had told her of a young friend 
who gave private lessons. She was 
pleased with the idea of the perfect lib- 
erty of this life and its independence. 
Alice had said that they paid her friend 
sometimes ten francs a lesson, by the 
hour. Jeanne calculated that by work- 
ing five or six hours each day she would 
make a little fortune in a few years. 
How she would work ! With what ardor 
she would search for scholars ! With 
what zeal she would give her lessons ! 
How economically she would live ! And 
some day Maxence should return ! For 
Maxence was at the bottom of all her 
thoughts. With what deep and noble 
pride she would say to him, “ Whilst 
you have seemed to forget me, I have 
worked ! Whilst you have lived in hap- 
piness, I have fought hard to keep my- 
self for you ! G-od knows the cost of the 
sacrifices. But in the depths of my sor- 
row I was happy in thinking that some 
day, perhaps, you would know how will- 
ingly I exerted myself!” 

And if Maxence did not return ? 

9 


Alas ! after this long and cruel silence — 
when he knew she was exposed to so 
many difficulties, to so much sorrow, 
was she not right to fear the worst ? 
Well, if he did not return life would be 
without charms, without object, without 
aim ; and then there would be only one 
thing for her to do — to return to the 
Rosery, to live there a little while with 
Jacqueline in sorrow, silence, and regret. 

She then decided : the scholar of Saint 
Denis would give private lessons. Mile. 
Derville knew that to teach accomplish- 
ments paid much better than useful 
knowledge. She sang well ; she played 
remarkably well ; she required very little 
study to leave the common crowd of 
amateurs and join the rank of artists. 

All these projects so skilfully exe- 
cuted seemed to renew Jeanne’s energy 
and courage. She did not know where 
else to go, so she went to her old hotel. 
They found her much changed — her 
eyes seemed larger, and her cheeks pale 
and thin. They gave her the same little 
room, rather near heaven, and hoped 
she would remain as long as it suited 
her. But Jeanne always appreciated a 
first lesson. She now knew, by experi- 
ence, what hotel life costs. So she de- 
termined to furnish a room for house- 
keeping. She started out at once to find 
one. It is a troublesome operation, es- 
pecially for a lone woman, as she would 
soon discover. 


CHAPTER X. 

^OTWITHSTANDINH the splen- 
-Ll dours of the new Paris, or perhaps 
on account of them, the lodging question 
becomes each day more perplexing for 
little purses. These poor little purses 
are the most unfortunate of all. First 
because they are little, which is an 
unpardonable error in a purse; then 
because they were not thought of, when 
these new houses were built. Architects 
and proprietors treat us like millionaires, 
although we are not. It is a heightened 
compliment, but it costs us very dear. 
Statistics show us that it is much easier 
to obtain an apartmenUfor ten thousand 
francs than for two thousand. How much 
harder is it then when one has still 
less means? It is Sjimply impossible. 
After ascending every staircase in the 


128 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Jung-Frau, Jeanne at last discovered 
in the street de Clichy, rather nearer 
heaven than earth, under the roof and 
on a level with all the chimneys, two 
little humble rooms, one whitewashed, 
the other papered with a Persian paper 
at fifteen cents each ; they were form- 
erly occupied by a young flower girl, 
who had plenty of light for her delicate 
work. 

She was still there when the solemn 
porter showed Jeanne the rooms. The 
porter rejoiced in the poetic name of 
Gabriel, and the frolicsome little girl 
always called him the Angel. 

“ Good morning, Angel,” said she. 
u Have you come to show my apart- 
ments ?” 

“ Come in, mademoiselle,” said the 
joung worker, rising to meet Jeanne. 
“ The show will cost nothing, only eighty- 
five steps. One is rewarded when they 
reach here, it is always as bright as now ! 
Windows full of sun, gutters full of 
•sparrows, and a balcony full of flowers.” 

“ These flowers are not worth as much 
as the ones you make, mademoiselle !” 
said Jeanne, taking a moss-rose from the 
table where the young girl was at work. 

“ The Angel has not said to me half 
as much as this in the last six months,” 
said the florist, looking at the porter, 
who stood leaning on the handle of the 
■door, listening to the conversation of the 
young girls, with the immovable gravity 
of a Roman senator in his chair of state. 

“ Your little nest suits me, mademoi- 
selle, and I will take it,” said Jeanne, 
opening her porte-monnaie to pay the 
retaining fee. 

The porter pocketed the piece, and 
then said : “ Where do you reside, 
mademoiselle ?” 

“ Taitbout street, Hotel of Trois 
Fr&res ; but why do you ask ?” 

“ To seek for your references,” re- 
plied he with a majestic air. 

Jeanne was much surprised. 

“ It is now the custom,” replied the 
•cerberus. 

“ It will soon be worse,” said the flo- 
rist; “they will ask for your certificate 
of vaccination before allowing you to 
ascend the stairs, and a security of ten 
•thousand francs for a garret window in 
the sixth story.” 

“ If the owners should order it,” 
muttered the porter 


“ You can go for my reference as 
soon as you please,” replied Jeanne; 
“ but as I am in haste, you will please 
give me my answer to-morrow morning.” 

“ Before ten o’clock ! We know our 
duty. But I must tell you, that we re- 
quire from lone ladies a month’s rent in 
advance.” 

“ And when we leave you, you will 
give us the interest of our money ?” 
said the florist with an arch look. 

Jeanne blushed at this unlooked-for 
requisition, for even this moderate rent 
would take away the fourth of her hum- 
ble means, and she felt that it would 
embarrass her, at a time when she was 
obliged to furnish her rooms. She 
would have withdrawn, but her pride 
prevented. The poorer one is, the more 
we try to hide it. And besides it would 
be the same everywhere. 

“ Very well !” replied she, after a 
moment’s hesitation ; “ I will pay in ad- 
vance.” 

The florist left next morning, and the 
keys were given to Jeanne. 

She must now furnish her rooms — a 
very easy task to those who have money 
in this luxurious Paris — but alas for 
the little purse! 

As Jeanne had none of the wished- 
for pupils, and had already learned not 
to trust to her future hopes, and as she 
knew after furnishing, she must still 
live, she fixed a small sum for her ex- 
penses, and determined that nothing 
should induce her to cross the line. 

All she could spare was one hundred 
francs. She would not be able to be 
very luxurious or to throw much money 
away. 

But Jeanne was ingenious, and could 
manage very well with a little. She 
bought a small table for the centre-piece 
of the room she fancifully called her lit- 
tle saloon. A little etagere hid the bare 
walls on one side. Chairs happened to 
be very high this year ; so she deter- 
mined to buy only one. “ One cannot 
sit on two chairs at once,” said she, “ but 
suppose I have company ? — I will request 
them to sit down, and myself remain 
standing, it will be more respectful.” 

“ Suppose two friends come at the 
same time.” 

“ Oh well ! they can sit in turns,” said 
she, laughing to herself. 

“ I must buy some curtains, neigh- 


129 


THE PUPIL OF THE 

bors are neighbors ! and they might be 
indiscreet/’ 

The fire place was enormous — Jeanne 
had it closed up. 

“ Suppose it should be cold next win- 
ter.” 

u Nonsense ! it^is never cold in Paris. 
Cold is only an idea ! Do not think 
about it, and we will be warm.” Her 
apartment was very humbly furnished, 
but it had a respectable air. One more 
chair might have been better than some 
Persian curtains decorated with birds; 
but they only cost fifteen cents per yard, 
and hid two very ugly doors, and gave a 
slight air of luxury to the saloon. Two 
pieces of delph — one of Rouen and the 
other of Nevers — both broken, but so 
little ! tried to give an artistic air and 
elegant tone to Vhe apartment. Mile. 
Derville looked at her own work with 
great satisfaction and exclaimed : this is 
my own home and all is mine. I am 
satisfied. 

Alas ! a saloon is not is enough for a 
woman’s happiness ; there is a bed-room 
to be thought about. But the saloon 
had almost emptied her little purse, and 
the sight of her bare bed-room recalled 
this fact. When one wishes to furnish 
a chamber, the bed is the first idea ; 
she searched everywhere, but finding a 
bedstead was beyond her means, she 
determined to purchase only one mat- 
tress, and to place that on the floor. 
When one has a pillow a bolster is use- 
less. Is a pillow positively necessary? 
If I raise the mattress a little at the 
head it will also be useless. Away with 
the pillow ! A mattress and two sheets 
are all that islyecessary — the rest are 
luxuries. I will not permit myself. 

She ordered what she required very 
distinctly, and returned home. 



CHAPTER XI. 

J EANNE, I must confess, did not 
sleep very comfortably this first 
night. She was nervous and restless, 
and heard the clock strike every hour. 
Youth has great confidence in its own 
powers. Jeanne acknowledged this with 
an irresistible logic. 

“ I am an honest girl; I have never 
injured any one; I will behave well, no 
matter what happens; God will not 


LEGION OF HONOR. 

abandon me. I only ask to live quietly, 
by hard work. Do I exact too much ? 
The times are hard now, but these un- 
fortunate days are only trials, to which 
I must learn to submit, to hope, to wait. 
But suppose the trial endures for seve- 
ral weeks — I will not have one penny 
left, and the days of miracles are gone.” 

Jeanne had never been alone before; 
it weighed heavily on her spirits. She 
had always lived with others; her child- 
hood had been cradled in the love and 
tenderness of her home. At St. Denis 
she had found the respect and affection 
of her teachers and companions. With 
Victorine she had enjoyed the flowers 
and poetry of friendship. On leaving 
school she had tasted at Blanchelande 
all the delights and fascinations which 
the world spreads before youth and 
beauty. With Maxence she had breathed 
the perfume of a first love. At the mise- 
rable establishment of Mme. de Sainte 
Colombe she enjoyed the wild sallies of 
the Irish girl. At the hotel the arri- 
vals and departures — a few words of po- 
liteness with the lady at the desk, kept 
her from feeling isolated and cut off 
entirely from, her race. 

Now all was changed; she was in an 
apartment scantily furnished, in a 
strange house in Paris, without family 
or servants, where she might die, with 
no one to soothe her last moments or 
receive her last sigh. 

All this fell on Jeanne’s heart very 
heavily, notwithstanding her efforts. 

She did not send for novels to 
console her, for she had felt their en- 
ervating effect, but for more solid lite- 
rature. She bought a book, entitled 
“ Letters of a Scholar of Saint Denig,” 
where she found a complete resume of 
the whole course of female education. 

She thus recalled in a few days what 
it had taken her years to. learn, and was 
much better prepared to fulfil her duties. 

To be a teacher, however, scholars 
are absolutely necessary. But the scho- 
lars did not come, and her small capital 
diminished rapidly. She was fright- 
ened at the cost of living in Paris. She 
took in the morning only one cup of 
milk, which the dairy woman as she passed 
left with the porter, and which she had 
christened too much already, but which 
was again baptized by the porter, and 
drank by Jeanne cold, to save fuel. 


130 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


In the evening they sent her a hum- 
ble meal from a neighboring restaurant, 
for which they made her pay double, on 
the pretext that things are so much 
dearer when brought to the rooms in the 
city. 

Jeanne calculated her expenses each 
week, and saw with terror her debtor’s 
account widening, which does not frighten 
sharp men of the world, but which 
causes great trouble to simple house- 
keepers, without friends, protectors, or 
relations. There was not much hope of 
scholars coming. 

She timidly gave some cards to the 
tradesmen who fitted up her rooms, but 
it was not in their power to aid her. 

One must be known to be able to ac- 
complish anything, and one must accom- 
plish something before being known. 

The young florist, whose apartments 
Jeanne had taken, and who had taken 
a great fancy to Jeanne, came to see her 
one Sunday. It was dinner time. The 
repast was very humble, and Jeanne was 
very sad. 

Agiae Sorel, this was the young 
worker’s name, was lively, frank, young, 
and generous, a perfect type of a Pari 
sian grisette — but a grisette in the best 
meaning of the term — open-hearted and 
light-headed. 

“ Well, indeed ! do you eat all alone 
in this way?” said she to Jeanne, whom 
she surprised seated at table. 

“ Bless me ! what else can I do ?” 

“ Oh, I could not do so. The pieces 
would stick in my throat ; nothing would 
go down, my good young lady. But this 
is not life — there were more songs in this 
nest when I was here.” 

“ And who do you wish me to dine 
with ? I have no canary birds,” replied 
Jeanne with a sad smile. 

“ You are not proud, mademoiselle ; 
I believe you are too noble for that,” 
continued Agla6, leaning her elbows on 
the table, and looking in Jeanne’s face 
with her bright black eyes. 

“ I believe,” replied Jeanne, u I am 
not — perhaps I might be if I had the 
right to be so. But why do you ask me 
this question, my child ?” 

“ Because, if I dared, I would invite 
you to dine with us once — only to see — 
in a house very plain, but better than a 
restaurant, and less dear — if you will 
consent.” 


“ But with whom do you dine 
there ?” 

“ With some good honest girls, hum- 
ble workers, dressed in delaines and 
muslins, a little silk here and there, but 
only on Sundays ; with loyal creatures, 
who gain their livelihood by work, and 
who owe nothing except to their own 
fingers. Come, try how you like it — 
the show costs nothing ! — all women, 
not a man in the dining-room; that will 
suit you.” 

Agiae Sorrel’s offer was so cordial 
that Jeanne could not possibly decline. 
So she accepted. The young florist 
came for Jeanne the next day at six, 
and took her to an establishment where 
she could obtain much better meaW at a 
lower rate than she had done at her 
restaurant. The young girls received 
Jeanne with simple and cordial polite- 
ness, mingled with respect; ana the 
colonel’s daughter soon saw that Agiae 
had described her to them. She did 
not expect to find among them the ideas 
or manners she had been accustomed to 
in her former life. They certainly had 
not been scholars of Saint Dennis. Most 
of them of humble birth, had gone from 
the infant school, and passed through 
the common school rapidly, to be shut 
up in a trades-room or a workshop. This 
was their whole education. 

But, whatever may have been their 
social condition, two women are always 
nearer to each other than two men, in 
the same situations. Women possess a 
faculty of adaptation unknown to our 
harder and less yielding natures. She 
yields with a better grace to necessity, 
and can give without taking from others. 
The contact with Agiae Sorrel’s friends 
did not injure Jeanne’s delicate suscep- 
tibilities. All tried to show how much 
honored they felt by her presence. 
Jeanne felt that gratitude alone would 
compel her to enjoy herself, and she did 
not find it a hard task to appear amiable. 
Nothing seemed easier. 

At last she said to herself, as she lis- 
tened to their joyous chit-chat, “ This 
is better than being alone !” 

When, in thought, she contrasted the 
brilliant life at the chateau de Blanche- 
lande with her present miserable exist- 
ence in the Rue de Clichy — when she com- 
pared her first hostess, at the Maisons- 
Lafitte, with the noble girls who this 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


131 


day offered her a dinner, she could not 
help a bitter feeling of regret at her 
hard fate. 

Whilst looking and listening to these 
young girls, all without fortune — with 
no certain future — but who bore the 
hardships of life bravely, careless and 
happy, mixing work and songs, some 
salutary thoughts came to Mile. Derville. 
She said to herself, “ it was better, after 
all, to make a dress or trim a bonnet, 
than to die foolishly of hunger in a 
garret with the airs of a princess." 

As her intellect did not seem of any 
use to her at this time, she would be too 
happy if her fingers would condescend 
to feed her. 

“ I was very proud at Saint Denis," 
said she to herself, “ when I went into 
the sewing-room, after a class of history, 
of literature or of music. I often laughed 
at the good Mme. Dionis, when she said, 
in her mincing voice : 

“ ‘ Do not despise these lowly labors, 
mademoiselle ; they are, undoubtedly, 
modest and humble, but they are very 
useful. The needle is our best friend ; 
a woman who knows how to use her 
needle will never starve/ 

“ Well, then, eh ! eh ! Jeanne Der- 
ville, with the highest prizes for rhetoric ! 
let us see what you can draw from this 
lost art! I have taken the airs of a 
queen, in presenting my task done with 
too little care. I see now how right the 
worthy woman was ! It is not my di- 
plomas, nor my belt of honor, nor my 
tree of recompense, planted in the gar- 
den with so much ceremony, which will 
support me. It will be this poor little 
despised needle ! Eh ! what little things 
take a big place in life sometimes ! 
Alice has abandoned me ; I have written 
twice, without any reply. She is ab- 
sorbed by her Rollina— and perhaps 
calumniates me ! Good-bye, lessons ! all 
that is ended — I must get out of this ! " 

Her resolution once taken, she deter- 
mined to put it into execution. She 
told Anglae her resolution, who commu- 
nicated it to the whole group of young 
girls. They had been very discreet, and 
had asked her no questions — although 
they had discussed it among themselves 
— how she lived. They received, there- 
fore, this confidence with eager sym- 
pathy. 

“ You are right, mademoiselle/' said 


Aglae, “ work is a good thing, and 
makes time fly. I am certain if I did 
nothing I should feed on myself. How 
can one get through the day with no- 
thing to do? Besides, one will never 
see on your form that you have worked 
— they will hardly see it on the end of 
your fingers/' 

“ And if they should see it, do you 
think that would make me blush, my 
poor child.?" replied Jeanne, with noble 
pride. “ Only one thing would make me 
blush — as I have no fortune, to live 
without work." 

“ You speak like a brave girl. But," 
said the florist, examining J eanne’s hand, 
“ it is indeed a long time since you have 
sewed. I do not see any needle pricks 
on this fine skin — the marks would show 
themselves." 

“That is a fact — but it will soon 
come to me." 

“ Are you skilful?" 

“ I wish to be." 

“ And you can be all you wish. You 
seem to me to have the fingers. of a 
fairy. Bose, the pretty little girl that 
sat alongside of me at dinner yesterday, 
whom you called the white rose, will in- 
troduce you to Mme. Clara des Glaieuls, 
one of our fashionable dress-makers, 
who is constantly complaining that she 
can obtain no fit person to speak to her 
best customers when she is absent. This 
will just do for you! I am sure that 
when she has seen*you" — 

“Stop!" said Jeanne. “I must be 
frank with you. Without being very 
bashful, I am always embarrassed with 
people I do not know. And then, to 
tell you the truth, I would not like to 
serve behind a counter. I should much 
prefer, if possible, to work at home." 

“ Oh ! I understand ; and this way 
you can also give lessons from time to 
time, if by chance any pupils come." 

“ Yes, if by chance /" murmured 
J eanne, with a melancholy smile. 


CHAPTER XII. 

T WO days after this, the colonel's 
daughter, at one time the crowned 
scholar of Saint Denis — she who at one 
moment had hoped to become suddenly 
rich and titled — Jeanne Derville— our 
heroine, sewed on a white dress that 


132 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Rose had brought her — all cut out — and 
which she arranged for her. It is a 
beautiful white satin dress — a bridal- 
robe, Rose told her, with eyes that 
sparkled at the sound of the word mar- 
riage — a magic word for all young girls ! 

It is a good start for you. It will 
bring you good luck !” 

Jeanne set to work with all her heart 
— for it was her first attempt — and she 
did not wish the little worker to be re- 
proached on her account. 

Besides, what young girl, let her be 
as indifferent as she supposes, having a 
bridal robe to make, would not give it 
all her care? The bride was perhaps 
not beautiful ; and if she could not be 
loved for herself, she might be for her 
surroundings. Whilst the needle ran 
in the satin, a thousand thoughts ran 
through the soul of Jeanne Derville. 
Work that engages only the hand, has 
this sometimes dangerous charm, it 
leaves our spirits too free — one dreams 
everything while working. 

Jeanne said to herself she was old 
enough to be married, that she loved 
and had been loved, perhaps she was 
still loved, that she had heard the sweet 
avowal of si charming love, and if she 
had been in a different state, as regards 
fortune, a well-born fiance would con- 
duct her to the altar. She made many 
painful comparisons between what she 
was and what she might have been. 
She thought of Maxence, who had 
crossed her path like a dream — of Max- 
ence, who had dazzled, charmed, and 
perhaps forgotten her; but who might, 
perhaps, have guarded, while far away, 
his faithful remembrances, , who per- 
haps would soon return — bring back his 
faith to her. 

“ The one I am working for is happier 
than I am. She has what I am waiting 
for. She possesses what I still hope for. 
May she be happy, this beautiful un- 
known. And may the bitter thoughts, 
which torment me while I sew her 
bridal robe, never come near her spirit/’ 

A fiancee cannot wait. Her white 
robe must be ready at the appointed 
moment. Rose and Jeanne worked day 
and night. But ten o’clock sounded on 
the morning of the marriage-day, when 
they put in the last stitch. 

“ All is right 1” said Rose, inspecting 


the work. “ I fear it is a little too full 
in the left side of the body.” 

“ You think so ?” 

“ Look yourself.” 

“ A little, perhaps, but it is easily 
repaired.” 

“ Certainly — it is done. Hold ! try 
it on. They will be in such a hurry 
that they will not take time to let us fit 
it. But though you are a little larger 
than the young lady, I can fit it well on 
you.” 

Jeanne put on the dress, and Rose 
complimented her as she arranged it. 

“ How becoming white is to you. If . 
the young lady’s intended should know 
you, I would pity his wife.” 

“ Hold your tongue, little goose,” 
replied Jeanne, embracing her, “and 
see quickly what is to be altered.” 

“ I have seen all !” 

“ Then take it off!” 

And Jeanne took off the dress, as if 
it had been the famous tunic of De- 
janira, dipped in the poisoned blood of 
Nessus, whose tissue consumed both of 
them with the same flame. 

“Now,” said Rose, “all is perfect; 
put on your hat ; I have a carriage at 
the door ; come with me ; I will intro- 
duce you to Mme. des Grlaieuls. She is 
a very good woman. I have told her 
about you, and she desires to see you.” 

Rose took the dress carefully on her 
two arms, and without waiting for 
Jeanne’s reply, with her white burden 
before her, descended the staircase like 
a whirlwind. Jeanne followed, and five 
minutes later the two girls made their 
solemn entrance into the house of Mme. 
Clara des Grlaieuls, fashionable dress- 
maker. 

The corset of the dressmaker had not 
strangled the woman’s heart in Clara, 
and the desire to accumulate rapidly a 
fortune, so common in Paris, had not 
stifled the germ of all her good feelings. 

Rose, one of her favorites, had spoken 
of Mile. Derville in such a way as to 
arouse her interest. Clara received her 
kindly, and with her most amiable 
words. Without alluding to anything 
that might hurt her feelings, she showed 
that she appreciated her conduct, and 
assured her she would always find em- 
ployment in her establishment. 

Jeanne was not spoilt. It was a 


TIIE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


133 


long time since she had heard such kind 
words. They went to her heart. Un- 
fortunate ones have very tender souls. 

“Now, mademoiselle,” said the pa- 
troness, turning to Rose, “you must 
take the dress to the right place, Mile. 
Derville may accompany you. I already 
rely on her good, taste. You can dress 
the bride yourselves. It is an attention 
we always show to our best customers,” 
said she to Jeanne. 

The two young girls started. Jeanne 
got into the carriage first, and Rose 
placed the dress on her knees, with a 
•maternal and religious carefulness, then 
she seated herself alongside of her com- 
panion. The carriage crossed rapidly 
the 0hauss6e d’ An tin, and drove down 
the Boulevard des Italiens. Before 
Jeanne had time to recognise the place, 
they turned into the Rue de Grammont. 

“ Oh ! where are we going to ? where 
are we going to?” asked Jeanne of the 
white Rose. 

“ Y ery near here. Do not be uneasy.” 

“ But where ? Tell me where ?” 

The carriage stopped. 

“ Enter !” cried the little porter to 
the coachman, “ the gate is open.” 

“No, no! he must not enter,” said 
Jeanne; “let me go away, let me get 
out ! I will not — I cannot ! My God ! 
It is she ! If it should be he !” 

“ Who is she ? Who is he ? Ex- 
plain yourself. I do not understand one 
word.” 

“ Get out ! Get out then !” said a 
footman, who had spied the carriage, 
and who ran to open the door for the 
young girls. “ They are all waiting for 
you. Madame is very impatient, and 
mademoiselle is in a great way.” 

“ The ceremony is put off,” said Rose, 
with an impertinent air. 

She was not afraid of the livery. 
She looked at her companion. Jeanne 
was as pale as death. 

“What is the matter? What ails 
you?” asked she. “You seem as if 
you were going to be very ill.” 

“ No, it is nothing ! A little faintness 
of the head ! We have been so hurried ! 
I feel better.” 

“ Then, give me the dress, and let us 
go up !” 

Jeanne’s limbs trembled a little while 
she mounted the stairs, but she steadied 
herself. The footman who showed them 


the way, was the same who had opened 
the door for her the evening she came 
from Saint Denis. She was in the same 
ante-room, ornamented with the same 
hunting engravings. She was in Mme. 
de Blanchelande’s house ; Yictorine was 
the bride ; it was Yictorine’s wedding 
dress she had made ! 

“1 believe I shall go crazy,” said she, 
in a low tone, pressing her forehead on 
her nervous hands. 

Two or three women servants (one of 
whom she remembered) showed them at 
once into Mme. de Blanchelande’s room. 
Yictorine was standing in the middle of 
the room, with her hair all arranged in 
the bridal wreath, waiting for her wed- 
ding dress. A contented look on her 
face, which gave her a sweet and attrac- 
tive appearance. She was not so aristo- 
cratic looking as Jeanne, but she was 
very beautiful, and it would not be a 
very difficult task to love her. Rose 
went first, carrying the dress, and thus 
hid Mile. Derville. But when she passed 
behind the young lady to assist in fas- 
tening her dress sh<* suddenly disclosed 
the daughter of the colonel. 

The two friends thus found themselves 
in each others’ presence, facing each 
other at a short distance under very 
trying circumstances for both. Jeanne 
was as white as marble ; but she had re- 
covered her sang froid, and was fright- 
fully calm. As to Yictorine, when she 
recognized her old companion — her 
friend, her rival — she felt an overpower- 
ing emotion, which showed itself in her 
trembling hands and sudden backward 
movement, as if she wished to run away. 
She bit her lips, half-closed her eyes, but 
did not speak. 

“ What is the matter?” said Mme. de 
Blanchelande, running to her daughter. 

Yictorine glanced at Jeanne. 

“ You here, mademoiselle?” said the 
baroness, divided between surprise and 
anger, .and uncertain of Jeanne’s inten- 
tions. “ What are you doing in my 
house ?” 

“ What is it all about ?” said another 
lady, approaching the group. By whose 
haughty appearance and aquiline nose 
Jeanne instantly recognized Maxence’s 
mother. 

“Behold my executioner!” thought 
Jeanne. Then turning to the baroness 
she said, in a quiet tone, “ You ask why 


134 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


I came to your house ? I reply — I have 
not come there ; for it would ill become 
Mile. Derville to have any communica- 
tion with Mme. La Baroness de Blanche- 
lande ; but I was sent here ! I am now, 
madame, a working-woman. It is I who 
have made the dress of Yict — , pardon 
me, of Mile, de Blanchelande ; and I 
came to put it on her.” 

The Countess de Bois-Robert imme- 
diately understood the whole thing; she 
thought it very singular, but also very 
inconvenient, and as she still feared her 
son’s meeting this beautiful and fasci- 
nating creature, whom he had loved so 
devotedly, she said, drily enough, to 
Jeanne, “ We wish to believe, mademoi- 
selle, that chance alone has brought you 
here. It is unfortunate, as you un- 
derstand, that we cannot accept your 
services.” 

“ I offered them, madame; I do not 
force them,” replied Jeanne, with much 
dignity ; and whilst speaking she started 
to withdraw. 

“Not this way,” said the countess, 
standing before the door of the saloon, 
where Maxence might already be ; and 
as she seemed the one in command, 
she pointed out a door which led to a back 
staircase used by the servants. 

Jeanne brought all her strength to 
bear; and after casting a proud, sad 
look on Mile, de Blanchelande, made a 
sign to Rose, and they both left silently. 
The carriage was still waiting, and they 
got in. 

As soon as she was alone with Rose, 
Jeanne hid her face in her hands and 
sobbed violently. 

“Dear me ! what is the matter? what 
in the world has* happened to you ?” 
said the little worker, unfastening the 
button of Jeanne’s dress to let her 
breathe more easily. “ Some misfortune 
seems to have happened to you during 
the last hour.” 

“ Nothing, it is nothing !” said Jeanne, 
recovering her self-command by a violent 
effort. 

“ Perhaps it is nothing now,” said 
Rose, taking her hand. “ It was a 
great deal, a little while ago. Heavens ! 
how you frightened me.” 

“ Dear friend, how good you are,” 
said Jeanne, drawing her close to her. 

“ It is not very hard to be kind to 
you, for you are so sweet and amiable,” 


replied Rose, pressing the hand that she 
still held in her own grasp. 

Jeanne felt touched by this true, 
lively sympathy, and she needed a con- 
fidante and consolation. 

So she said : “ My child, I will have 
no secret from you — I wish to tell you 
all ! Know then that this young girl, 
formerly my friend, is going to marry a 
man whom I have loved, and who has 
loved me. Do you understand ?” 

“ I understand perfectly. It is like 
myself and M. Ernest. Alas ! Made- 
moiselle Jeanne, all young girls have in 
their memories such a story as yours. 
This does not hinder the first blow from 
being hard, when it comes so unexpect- 
edly as this has — cry a little — it will 
relieve you.” 

“ No, no ! I cannot cry now — I must 
not have red eyes — later, later ! Be- 
hold ! I am strong now — my color has 
returned — has it not ?” 

“ Yes, like a white rose,” said the 
worker, raising her pretty little head. 

The coachman, having no orders, 
drove slowly. 

“ Where do you wish to go now ?” 
asked Rose. 

“ To church.” 

“ To their church ?” 

“ Yes!” 

“ To make a scene ?” 

“ Oh ! how can you ?” 

“We will go! I am wrong — I am 
certain all you do is right — but in your 
place, I would not open my wound the 
second time by this sight.” 

“ Go to the church of Petits-P&res,” 
said she to the coachman ! “ Notre 

Dame des Victoires,” you know where. 

Her eyes shone with feverish light, 
and her cheeks, so pale a little while ago, 
were now scarlet. 

M. le Baron de Blanchelande was an 
important person, and all were aware of 
the ceremony. 

The church accommodates itself to all 
fortunes; it is modest with the poor, 
pompous with the rich and great. Noth- 
ing was too elegant for Mile, de Blanch- 
lande and M. le Comte de Bois-Robert. 
The whole church had the air of a fete, 
the altar shone with gold and brightness. 
Flowers were all around. The curtains 
were withdrawn from the organ gallery, 
which was filled with first class perform- 
ers. The guards in full dress, white 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


135 


cravats, black coats, &c., endeavored to 
perserve order among the curious crowd, 
which increased every moment. 

The Swiss, that a terrified child had 
once called the “ Punch of the good 
God,” clothed in his grand costume, 
struck his cane on the marble. 

Jeanne felt bewildered on entering. 
She looked at the altar where the sacrifice 
of which she was the victim was to be 
made; she involuntarily fell on her knees 
aud prayed. ‘We have times of instinc- 
tive religion, when our soul longs to 
open itself before God. Jeanne was not 
of a mystic nature, she had not the ex- 
alted ardor of Louis de Gonzague or of 
Theresa d’ Avila, but she had a pious and 
believing soul, and sorrow drew her to 
the common father of all his creatures. 
She wished to ask his support during the 
severe trial his hand had inflicted. 

But the God whose aid she sought in 
prayer is the God of the unhappy, of 
the young, and of the feeble ; and it 
seemed as if she could not find him in 
this church dressed for a fete. She soon 
arose, and step by step advanced to the 
seats reserved for the invited guests. 
The sexton examined her simple toilet, 
and judged she could not belong to 
either of these rich families ; so he 
politely asked her if she was a wedding 
guest ? 

“ No, no 1” replied Jeanne, quickly 
and coloring. 

“ Then will you please to take one of 
those side-seats — these are reserved.” 

Jeanne silently obeyed, and, followed 
by -Rose, found herself back of the choir, 
half hid by the iron grating. 

The voice of reason, to which unhap- 
pily she would not listen, said to her 
“ This is enough — now you must leave 
— go away.” A stronger voice, and one 
more imperious — that of passion, — 
said to her “ No ! stay still ! Since you 
have done so much, you must go 
through. You must walk to the end 
of this sorrowful path, where your feet 
bleed, where your knees are torn. You 
must see all, and surfeit your eyes with 
your trial and sorrow.” And this was 
the voice to which she listened. She 
seated herself, leaning her head on a 
pillar, wide awake to the slightest 
sound. 

Victorine had been much disturbed 
by the meeting with Jeanne, and it re- 


quired the efforts of both mothers to 
reassure aud comfort her. Her indis- 
position delayed the ceremony, and she 
was still pale when she reached the 
church. Paleness, however, is becoming 
in a bride. 

Jeanne felt a hand on her shoulder, 
and Rose whispered — 

“ Here they come ! Take care !” 

The church door opened, and the 
cortege entered, preceded by the ma- 
jestic Swiss. A chill passed through 
Mile. Derville, and she shuddered from 
head to foot ! In all this crowd she saw 
only one person — that was him. A 
sculptor or a painter would not have 
wished for a better model to represent 
young manhood than Maxence. He 
seemed as handsome to Jeanne now, as 
formerly at Blanchelande, except that 
on his face there was a coldness and 
constraint. It did not expand with 
those joyous rays of happiness which 
illuminate the face of a man on the eve 
of marriage with the woman of his 
heart. The relations stood up, and the 
young couple kneeled on the step of an 
altar, covered with scarlet velvet, em- 
broidered with gold. The priest, in his 
holiday robes, after praying silently, 
turned to the people and addressed a 
few touching words to those whose 
union he was about to bless. He told 
them of the duties of marriage, and of 
the inestimable joys of loves permitted 
and blessed by God — the only true love 
— in such an enthusiastic manner that 
his whole audience was carried aw 7 ay. 
The charms and perils of these eternal 
unions were depicted in such a way as 
to show how perfectly a priest under- 
stood human passions. He painted 
in glowing colors the chaste delight of 
two married people who love each other ; 
two lives finding mutual aid in a re- 
ciprocal affection, doubling all their 
joys — the heart union, lasting beyond 
the tomb, and the passing tenderness 
of a day merely a prelude to the eternal 
tenderness of a life which never ends ! 
In this magnificent language — echo of 
Christian platonism — love of man and 
woman was represented as the greatest 
of. human affairs — as a union which 
united earth and heaven — as the first 
pure flight of matter, ready to lose 
itself in the source of all love. 

How many persons are there who 


136 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


listen to a wedding address, let it be 
ever so eloquent ? The bride is too much 
agitated ; the groom is too distracted. 
It is well if, in a large assembly, there 
are two or three who seize the thoughts 
and ideas of the orator. It is above all 
in Paris that one may preach to a desert ! 
but the happy vicar had to-day one 
young girl for an auditor who listened 
and understood him. 

Jeanne’s heart echoed each word ; it 
was thus she understood love ; it was 
thus she understood life and the com- 
munion of souls when all is one between 
them, and the sharing of all blessings 
and trials, the one being increased, while 
the other is lessened by being divided. 
This life she felt she would have enjoyed 
with Maxence — with him who was about 
to try it with another. 

All the eloquent ideas of the young 
preacher tore her soul like a sharp in- 
strument, which quickened all the facul- 
ties of her being to suffering and to love. 
To suffer, to love, so often synonymous 
terms. 

The marriage ceremony soon com- 
menced, full of poetic grandeur. Jeanne 
did not know it. • Under other circum- 
stances, it would have struck her enthu- 
siastic imagination ; now it weighed her 
down. She followed as well as she 
could. She saw an adored hand — a 
faithless one — place on the finger of the 
young girl a ring, token of an unaltera- 
ble union, which she, by right, alone 
ought to receive and wear. She heard 
them exchange promises to love before 
God, and the priest invoked the bless- 
ings of heaven upon them. 

What the unfortunate one suffered 
in this slow agony of her heart she could 
not have told. This marriage mass was 
for her a mass of death, at which she as- 
sisted while still living — weeping over 
her youthful tomb. She had lost all 
consciousness of time — minutes seemed 
centuries. She believed this cruel trial 
to which she had subjected herself would 
never end, and that she would see for- 
ever this marriage of Maxence and Vic- 
torine. 

Mile. Derville had not the least idea 
of creating a scene, or playing the role 
of the accusing apparition by showing 
between the two pillars a pale phantom 
head, to bring remorse to the guilty 
couple, and to recall tragically her re- 


membrance to the unfaithful ones who 
had forgotten her. 

No such thing co*uld be feared from 
her. The drama was acted in her soul. 
It was indeed an internal tragedy with- 
out one external sign. 

Neither Maxence nor Victorine had 
the least suspicion that there was a poor 
creature near them whose soul was 
pierced to its inmost depths by the sight 
of their happiness. 

She was neither perceived nor recog- 
nised by either. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

T HE Baron de Blanchelande, how- 
ever, who long since had settled 
ideas on the poetry of marriage, and 
was consequently rather absent-minded, 
did not keep his eye fixed on the altar, 
but cast furtive glances around after the 
women, searching for a pretty face, with- 
out much regard for the sanctity of the 
place. He soon espied behind the rim- 
railing the young seamstress, whom, he 
remembered to have seen with his daugh- 
ter at his own house, and after examin- 
ing her companion with the eyes of a 
lynx, he recognised Jeanne. This un- 
expected meeting caused M. de Blanche- 
lande much emotion. His feelings for 
the young girl were much more serious 
than any he had felt for many years. It 
was not, however, a passion which en- 
grossed his whole life. These passions 
are rare, especially with a fast man like 
M. de Blanchelande; but let us say, to 
his honor, that though he had been de- 
feated in his ends, he still took a sincere 
interest in Jeanne, and if he loved her 
a great deal for himself, he loved her a 
little also on her own account. 

Do not let us ask more of an unsuc- 
cessful “ Lovelace,” whose retreat we are 
quite willing to cover. 

On seeing Mademoiselle Derville at 
the marriage of her rival with the man 
she loved, and who she had believed 
loved her, he felt all she must suffer, 
and pitied her. This generous senti- 
ment was soon followed by one much 
more selfish. He thought that if the 
Count Robert was the serious obstacle 
existing between him and Mile. Der- 
ville, it was not a bad thing for this ob- 
stacle to be removed even by a violent 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


13T 


blow, and that Jeanne, seeing there was 
no more hope for her in that quarter, 
would turn to him, who could know 
where her despair would drive her. 
The opportunity was good. M. de Blan- 
chelande desired nothing better than to 
quit the role of father he was playing at 
present, for that of an adventurer, and 
to obtain his purpose with the charming 
Jeanne. But this was rather a difficult 
thing to do. He could not leave his 
daughter and son-in-law at the altar to 
march round the church after a young 
girl, no matter how beautiful she might 
be. He must stay quietly in his seat, 
like the rest. Then he must go to the 
vestry-room to sign his name at the head 
of the list ; and what would he said if 
he did not go to the customary family- 
breakfast? The whole day was taken 
up. He was forced to play his official 
role. 

The next day he was obliged to settle 
the people in a pretty little villa the 
countess had hired near Chantilly, and 
from there, without returning to Paris, 
he must conduct the baroness to her 
own family. The really tender mother 
needed all sorts of distractions to soften 
the blow which separated her from Vic- 
torine. Mothers are always this way — 
they lament when their daughters are 
not married, and sob when they are. — 
Tears for ever ! 

Mme. de Blanchelande’s family lived 
in Belgium. The baron could not leave 
the instant he arrived, so it would take 
four or five days, and in that time he 
might perhaps lose all traces of Jeanne, 
whom he had so fortunately discovered. 

Common prudence told him, that he 
must not appear to have noticed her, 
or he would put her on her guard and 
lose the benefit of a surprise. He 
remembered he could find Bose at Mme. 
des Glaieuls and thus find Jeanne, and 
he arranged a little campaign which 
must succeed notwithstanding the delay 
in the commencement of the affair. 
These edifying thoughts filled his mind 
during the whole of the mass, which 
was celebrated with great pomp in honor 
of his daughter. 

When the ceremony was ended the 
wedding-party followed the clergy to 
the vestry-room where they were to 
arrange the last formalities. Bose saw 
that the procession must pass directly 


by them, so she led or rather almost 
carried Jeanne away, at the moment 
when Maxence came forward with the 
woman on his arm whom God and men 
had just given him for a wife. 

The two young girls could leave in 
the confusion of the crowd without 
being remarked ; some voices said the 
bride was beautiful, others replied that 
the groom was still handsomer. 

“ How happy she seems,” said one. 

“ He has a gloomy air, I think.” 

“ White becomes her.” 

“ See, he has a blue coat.” 

“ The fashion for rich men is to wear 
black.” 

“ Black is the color for notaries.” 

“ See how he smiles as he makes her 
pass before him into the vestry.” 

Bose heard all this, but did not wish 
Jeanne to, so she hastened her steps and 
made free use of her elbows to force a 
passage through the crowd — a very diffi- 
cult thing to accomplish. 

Mile. Herville followed mechanically, 
holding her arm as if she were intoxi- 
cated or in a dream. The two young 
girls at last were outside of the church. 
Bose stopped a carriage that was passing, 
and helped Jeanne in and took her home. 
Jeanne was unconscious of everything; 
like a body without a soul. 


CHAPTEB XIV. 

S IX days afterwards an elegant gentle- 
man, who appeared still young, thanks 
perhaps to the artifices of the toilet, 
passed rapidly up the five flights of diffi- 
cult stairs that led to Mile. Derville’s 
apartments. 

“ Oh !” said he, wiping the perspira- 
tion from his forehead; “I have had 
enough. Virtue resides too near heaven : 
I should prefer it on the ground floor. 
But let us go to the east, corridor A., 
second door to the left; a little green 
ribbon. This honest porter has given 
me plenty of information for the louis I 
paid him. All that should be easy to 
find. Here is the corridor A. ; we will 
soon find the door ; here it is ! little green 
ribbon ? this is certainly the place.” 

M. de Blanchelande, for it was he, 
took a few steps forward as if he did not 
wish to be heard. Just as he raised his 
hand to take hold of the green ribbon, 


138 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


a man came suddenly out of Jeanne’s 
apartment into contact with him. The 
barojr withdrew a step ; but he soon 
saw from the grave air, white cravat, 
and early visit of the stranger, that he 
was a doctor. The doctor recognised at 
a glance that the baron was a man of 
the world, and assured by the red rose 
on his breast, concluded that he was 
visiting his young patient with the best 
of motives. He took him for the presi- 
dent, at least the secretary, of some of 
the benevolent societies with which 
France has been so richly endowed for 
several years. So he spoke first, with 
respectful deference. 

“ She is very ill, sir — the poor child 
is very ill !” 

These words made the baron shudder 
— he had not had the slightest presenti- 
ment of such a misfortune. 

Without stopping to ask any more 
questions, and wishing to judge for him- 
self what he had to hope or fear; espe- 
cially anxious to avoid all embarrassing 
explanations, he said : 

“ I know this, and come on that ac- 
count.” 

He entered. The doctor saw that the 
benefactor of his young patient did not 
desire to talk any more at present, he 
therefore bowed and descended. 

M. de Blanehelande crossed quickly 
the little room Jeanne had ambitiously 
called her saloon, and soon entered the 
second room, which was the young girl’s 
bedchamber. 

We have told how miserable this 
room was. It was absolutely bare. 

Alas ! Jeanne had not the most essen- 
tial furniture to a bed-room, the bed. 
The colonel’s daughter lay on a mattress 
thrown on the floor in a corner, and 
watched over by one of those public 
nurses — true servants of the dead — who 
seem waiting only to close your eyes, to 
throw the cloth over your head — and 
their sinister task once ended, to pay 
themselves for their trouble, by carrying 
off all on which they can lay their ra- 
pacious hands — fortunate when they do 
not hasten the too slow and impatiently- 
looked-for death. 

Seated on the only chair, her head on 
her hand, her disordered hair escaping 
from her cap, which was all awry, a 
bottle of brandy by her side, this “ Me- 


goera” for three francs a day, did not 
raise her head when the door opened. 

M. de Blanehelande could study at his 
ease the spectacle of misery, of which 
his fortunate life had never even had the 
least conception. 

This flagrant poverty struck him with 
pity and terror. Misery is like death, 
it causes fear to the rich, who are not 
used to its terrible aspect. He felt also 
reproached — the poor girl had lived in 
his family, been intimate with his wife 
and daughter, and perhaps he had con- 
tributed to plunge her into this terrible 
abyss — he had known she was poor, and 
he had done nothing to aid her in her 
fight against poverty. One man could 
have relieved her — this man loved her, 
she loved him — he could easily have 
given her the rank and fortune for 
which she was so suited — and this man, 
a victim, like herself, to the snares two 
powerful families had thrown around 
them, had cruelly abandoned her — he 
had married Jeanne’s friend— and he 
himself had given his daughter to him. 
It was under this last blow that the 
poor girl’s health had given way. 

The baron was then the real cause of 
these misfortunes that he saw before 
him. This painful idea did not stifle 
all selfish sentiments, but suspended 
their expression, and left only pity in 
his heart. This overwhelming pity 
nailed him to the threshold of Mile. Der- 
ville’s chamber, and he dared not enter. 

Jeanne turned her head from the 
wall towards the baron, who could see 
the ravages the last few days had pro- 
duced. She was remarkably thin ; her 
eyes shone with fever, and her cheeks 
seemed on fire; her long dishevelled 
hair covered her half-naked shoulders. 
She was still beautiful, but of a fright- 
ful beauty. 

“ I am thirsty,” murmured she, with- 
out opening her eyes, and with a feeble 
voice, which seemed like a little sigh 
of wind. 

To this sorrowful cry the nurse only 
replied by a heavy stupefied grunt, but 
did not move from her seat. 

“ I am thirsty,” Jeanne said again. 

“ With people sick as she is, one 
never has a moment’s peace,” murmured 
the horrible creature, rising, however, 
to take a glass of water from the little 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


139 


table. As she turned to the door she' 
perceived M. de Blanchelande. She 
was electrified at this sight — her old 
nerves trembled. She quickly ap- 
proached Jeanne’s bed, and said, with a 
tone which she tried to make obliging 
and affectionate: 

“ Here I am ! Here I am ! dear 
young lady ! What do you wish V 1 

“ I want a drink.” 

The nurse presumed that the baron 
was one of the race called “ Protec- 
teurs,” and that she must do her best 
to obtain his good graces, hoping that 
he had not noticed anything, he re- 
mained so immovable; so she consulted 
the doctor’s orders, mixed the medi- 
cines, and presented the cup with an 
air intended to be very maternal, but 
which was only grotesque. 

“ Drink,” said she ; “ drink it all, my 
beautiful little one; it is good, and then 
it will do you so much good. It will 
make you well. Every one wishes to 
cure you. I above all. God knows 
that I work hard enough to do so, with- 
out caring for the trouble.” 

Jeanne Derville, without seeming to 
notice this cajolery, raised herself with 
pain on her elbow, and with a trembling 
hand carried the cup to her lips. As 
she did so, she saw M. de Blanchelande. 
A thousand sorrowful remembrances 
rushed over her at this sight, she 
pushed the cup away, and her inani- 
mate head rolled on the bed, half hidden 
in her hair. 

The baron pushed the nurse away, 
and took the poor invalid in his arms, 
resting Jeanne’s pale cold head on his 
breast. 

Perhaps this contact aroused her, 
perhaps she was warned by that secret 
instinct that watches over and for 
woman, even when her reason sleeps. 
Jeanne returned to herself, and recog- 
nising on whose arms she was, disep- 
gaged herself with a movement of hor- 
ror, and so suddenly, that she struck her 
head against the wall. But insensible 
at this moment to pain, and recovering 
her energy with her fierce indignation, 
she drew the sheet over her breast with 
one hand, and with the other showed 
the baron the door. 

“ Go !” said she. “ Go, monsieur !” 

“Jeanne! Mademoiselle!” said M. 
de Blanchelande, trying to disarm her 


'by his gentleness; “you are as hard on 
yourself as you are unjust to me. I 
have done wrong, I know that; but 
forget it, since I am conscious of my 
faults. Believe, henceforward, they 
will be expiated by my repentance, and 
the sorrow I feel at seeing you in this 
state. You imagine, doubtlessly, that 
I have caused you much sorrow. Some 
day you will know that my crimes are 
more apparent than real. All I ask of 
you, is not to send me away now. Wait 
till you are well to be so cruel. Later 
you can do as you please. When you 
are better you can dismiss me. Now 
have pity on yourself, and permit me to 
take care of you as a friend, as a father.” 

“Leave me, sir!” cried Jeanne. 
“ Go away ! Leave me now ! I have 
done nothing to you — have I? Well! 
Let me die in peace, this is all I ask 
from you. It is all I wish from you.” 

All this was said with a strange, wild 
excitement. But this violence ex- 
hausted her, and she was seized with a 
violent prostration. She remained for 
some moments insensible, as if floating 
between life and death. Two big drops 
of perspiration ran down her forehead 
to her cheeks. 

“ Behold, sir, the way she goes on all 
the time,” said the nurse, indignant at 
the reception the young girl gave a gen- 
tleman, who seemed rich, kind, and 
anxious to do all he could for her. 

The baron would not have been re- 
ceived in this manner if the advice of 
Mme. Grugear (the name of the hideous 
old woman) had been sought. 

M. de Blanchelande was not the man 
to listen to these complaints, or to allow a 
word to be spoken against Mile. Der^ 
ville. He ordered the garrulous old 
woman to keep still, with an imperative 
gesture, and to soothe Jeanne, left the 
bed, and looked on in silence. 

But the nervous movements of the 
invalid showed a continued excitement. 

The baron did not feel disposed to 
leave until he had seen the poor invalid 
to a more favorable mood. 

This silent scene lasted for some time, 
when the door opened, and the young 
seamstress entered, whom M. de Blanche- 
lande had seen in the church with 
Jeanne. 

When Rose saw the baron she put on 
a dignified air, which contrasted singu- 


140 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


larly with her little figure. She felt 
called upon to personate morality, and 
reversing the order of things, she ad- 
monished a man whose rank and age 
ought to have exonerated him from re- 
ceiving it from any one, especially a 
young girl. 

“ Ah ! sir,” said she approaching him, 
“ you desire to be the death of her — 
have you not done her enough injury 
already ?” 

“ You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” 
answered the baron in a sad, grave tone, 
“ I have never injured your friend. I 
have always desired to benefit her. And 
even now, my greatest desire is to help 
you to save her — if your kind heart will 
permit me to assist you in the cares and 
devotion with which I see you surround 
her.” 

“ I do not see how you can, sir.” 

“ My God !” replied the baron, glanc- 
ing around, “ there are plenty of oppor- 
tunities, if you will accept my aid.” 

As M. de Blanchelande pronounced 
these last words, he felt he had gained 
ground in leading the young worker to 
argue with him. 

Rose, blushing, listened. There are 
some grand souls that feel ashamed of 
their poverty, as if it was their fault. 
She soon recovered, and looking M. de 
Blanchelande modestly but firmly in the 
face, replied : 

“ It is true, we are not rich, but we 
love each other, and try to help each 
other along. We earn just enough to 
keep us ; but since Mile. Jeanne is sick 
we work one hour longer each day on 
her account, and thank God, she has 
had at least all the necessaries. The 
d iCtor of the neighborhood — an apothe- 
cary at her door — and Mme. Grugear — 
whom you see — for nurse.” 

“ Yes, I know Mme. Grugear ! and I 
would advise you to look after her — I 
have seen how she nurses.” 

“Then,” continued Rose, “Mme. 
Grugear is only here through the day. 
We watch our little invalid all night by 
turns. Do we not, Jeanne ?” 

A faint smile passed over Mile. Der- 
ville, and she held out her hand to 
Rose, as if to thank her. 

“ Ah, I know you do your duty no- 
bly, and I appreciate it with all my 
heart,” replied the baron, in a low tone; 
“but there are many things out of your 


power. Let this be my share of the 
work, the whole merit of which will be 
yours. See what a situation your un- 
happy friend is in. She needs, notwith- 
standing what you have told me, the most 
positive necessaries of life. In the state 
she is in you could not refuse the assist- 
ance even of an enemy ; and God knows 
if I am an enemy of hers.” 

M. de Blanchelande spoke in such a 
tone that none could doubt the sincerity 
of his feelings. Rose felt herself almost 
convinced, for Mme. de Glaieul's pretty 
little worker was not after all of a very 
puritanic disposition. She knew the 
real side of life much better than our 
heroine. For whilst Mile. Derville, 
shaded by the high walls of Saint Denis, 
studied peaceably the history of the 
Hebrews, the Greeks, and the Romans, 
Rose, in the midst of Parisian realities, 
studied without books the lives of the poor 
young French people in the workshop 
and the garret. She had gfcne through 
hard phases of existence, and endured 
all sorts of privations. And now, not- 
withstanding all her efforts, she saw her 
dear young companion in one of those 
sad positions where necessity knows no 
law; and she asked herself if she was 
right to refuse in her name, benefits 
that might restore j^er to health, and 
that were not very compromising. M. 
de Blanchelande saw her hesitation, 
and, like a skilful tactician, tried to nail 
the thing on the head. But Jeanne, 
weak and feeble as she was, had under- 
stood all the details of this scene; so 
raising her head with a painful effort, 
and pressing Rose’s arm with her ner- 
vous fingers, she said in a low and 
thrilling voice — 

, “Send him away! Send him away, 
now ! I wish nothing from him ! his 
pity even is an injury; and if I can 
live only through his assistance, I would 
rather die !” 

The invalid’s pulse beat frightfully ; 
also the arteries in her temples. The 
fire of a noble anger and generous in-"*' 
dignation lighted the flame in her eyes. 

“ You hear, } sir,” said Rose to the 
Baron de Blanchelande, “she will not 
be saved by you, and you may be the 
cause of her death if you insist on 
remaining.” 

“ Farewell then, unforgiving soul !” 
replied the baron, looking at Mile. Der- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


141 


ville with as much pity as love, as he 
silently withdrew. 

Mme. Grugear, a close observer of 
human nature, and who lived by the 
vicesand weaknesses of her race, followed 
M. de Blanchelande, under the pretext 
of politeness, but in reality to speak to 
him privately. 

“ Charitable sir,” said she, in a fawn- 
ing, hypocritical tone, “you must ex- 
cuse these young people — they are good 
— honest, that is certain — and then so 
poor. See how many things she needs. 
It is not my fault — I have done all I 
can.” 

M. de Blanchelande turned away 
from this harpy in disgust, but still he 
placed two napoleons in her hand with 
his card, saying : 

“Here is my address — to-morrow 
evening when her friend is here, you can 
come tell me how she is — I order you not 
to leave her alone.” 

The nufse promised to do as he de- 
sired, and showed the baron out respect- 
fully. 

Jeanne was more quiet when she was 
left alone with her friend. 

“ How are you to-day ?” asked Bose, 
taking her hand. 

“ I was a little better before he came 
— I slept a great* deal, and thought of 
nothing, my head is so empty.” 

“ Oh ! that does not disturb me — we 
can soon fill it. The most important 
thing is to allay this fever — if you only 
knew how your delirium frightened poor 
Aglae and me — you said such sad 
things that they went to our hearts. I 
went to bed late, and so missed the doc- 
tor — what did he say to-day ?” 

“ Oh, goodness ! you know he never 
says anything.” 

“ Then he says all he knows,” said 
Bose. “ I fear we have fallen into bad 
hands.” 

“ What can we do ? Dearest, I as- 
sure you they visit me, and the best is 
worth no more than the worst — the only 
difference is, the one kills us and the other 
allows us to die. But what consequence 
is it ?” added she, with a movement of 
deep despair, “ all gd at their appointed 
time, and they can neither hasten nor 
retard the momemt. Life, after all, is 
hardly worth regretting.” 

“Alas! always these sad thoughts,” said 
the young worker, smoothing the inva- 1 


lid’s waving hair. “ You must not talk 
so, for you grieve me — if you have no 
desire to be cured on your own account, 
you must for the sake of us, who love 
you, and have taken the best care of you 
we could, and who will not be at all 
flattered to see you die.” 

“ Then I will not die, if it will annoy 
you ! But call back this frightful wo- 
man, (oh, darling ! if you could only 
get me another), and order her to make 
me something to drink — I have a burn- • 
ing thirst !” 


CHAPTEB XY. 

^T^HILST the sick-nurse — that open 

’ * sore for solitary poverty — pre- 
pares the drink, we will review Jeanne’s 
history in a few words : 

Bose, after the marriage, had under- 
stood Jeanue’s miserable state of mind, 
and had taken her home. Jeanne was 
at once seized with such a violent deliri- 
ous fever that they feared at first for her 
life, and then for her mind. 

One could now see how active affec- 
tion can be even among the poor. The 
warmth of mutual charity — the ardent 
compassion for all who suffer, fired 
the hearts of these noble young girls 
whom the devoted zeal of Aglae Sorel 
had interested in the misfortunes of 
Jeanne Derville. Working much, gain- 
ing little, only able with skill and 
economy to make both ends meet at the 
end of the year, these good creatures 
forgot their fatigues, troubles, and cares 
of their hard life, to think only of the 
sad desolate one, more unhappy even 
than themselves. 

Perhaps such devotion is more fre- 
quent among the poor than among the 
rich. Those who have nothing else to 
give, give themselves without counting 
the cost. They consulted together, ar- 
ranged things, and united their funds ; 
so Jeanne was as carefully attended to 
by these strangers as if they had been 
her mother and sisiers. 

Her youth and strong constitution did 
the rest. The doctor could not kill her. 
The Baron de Blanchelande, obliged, as 
we have said, to escort his wife to Brus- 
sels after Victorine’s marriage, had lost 
sight of Mile. Derville, when lie refound 
her by the aid of Mme. des Glaieuls. 


142 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


The young girl was passing through the 
most dangerous crisis of her illness. 

The emotions his visit occasioned 
doubled the violence of her disease, and 
they feared each moment for her life ; 
but her hour was not yet come, and she 
bore up against this new attack with 
more strength than they Lad supposed. 
She recovered. 

Her convalesence was long and pain- 
ful. After a month of perfect quiet- 
ness she was able, one Sunday, with the 
help of Rose and Agla6, to sit down on 
a bench in the Boulevard. How she 
enjoyed breathing the fresh air and the 
bright sun ! 

Life is always sweet to the young, no 
matter how unhappy they may be. 
Jeanne was sad in her inmost heart, but 
she felt at this moment as if she could 
not be miserable. Life is long, there is 
always time enough to suffer. She wished 
to think now only of the affection, so ex- 
quisite, so delicate, and so charming 
that they had shown her, and the devo- 
tion with which they had surrounded 
her in her illness. 

For a well-born heart gratitude is a 
sentiment of infinite sweetness ; there is 
so much happiness even in the trial that 
has called it forth. 

Jeanne tried to console herself for 
those who had forgotten her by thinking 
of others. She listened to Rose. Then 
resting against a tree, with half-closed 
eyes she said to herself, “ There are 
some generous natures left in the world 
— all goodness is not yet exiled from the 
earth.” 


CHAPTER XYI. 

O NE has said, with great truth, Paris 
is a peopled desert, a solitude of 
eighteen hundred thousand souls, re- 
markably indifferent to individuals, and 
some one disappears from it at each 
moment without notice. The vacancy 
is scarcely made, when it is filled. 

Jeanne Derville, notwithstanding her 
humble position, attracted much atten- 
tion in the house. Her grace, elegance, 
and distinguished beauty could not pass 
unobserved. They had spoken much 
of her illness, and the day they sup- 
posed she was dying, two or three souls 
prayed for her : 


“Poor girl, so young, so charming, 
what a pity !” 

Jeanne’s illness had created a benevo- 
lent feeling of interest, and they were 
all rejoiced when the portress, the news 
agent of the establishment, told them 
that the pretty invalid was saved. 

A middle-aged lady, Mme. d’Esclo- 
ville, who resided on the first floor, and 
was rich and benevolent, hearing them 
speak of Jeaune, had the curiosity to 
visit her. She ascended the high stairs 
on the day after Jeanne had first 
breathed the air. The fresh air had 
done Jeanne good, and she commenced 
her work again perhaps too soon; but 
she felt she must not longer be such 
a heavy burden to her young friends. 

The portress, who had the key of her 
apartment, introduced her chief boarder, 
to whom for a thousand reasons she owed 
great respect. 

Jeanne was seated near the window in 
a ray of sunshine. Some tame birds 
picked up the crumbs left from her 
breakfast, and by their joyous notes wel- 
comed her return to life. Two creepers 
ran up an iron wire, and let fall in all 
directions their white and blue bells. It 
was poverty, but clean and bright pov- 
erty. Jeanne’s beautiful head, idealized 
still more by her illness, relieved with 
touching grace this back-ground of fresh 
verdure. Her white thin transparent 
hands sewed a hard material with pain- 
ful effort, accomplishing slowly a task 
far beyond her strength, but one she had 
sought. 

Thinking the portress had come in as 
usual alone, she did not raise her eyes 
from her work. 

The visitor contemplated this lovely 
and touching picture in silence. She was 
struck by this distinction in poverty, this 
beauty in misery, and she recognised in 
the young girl the virtue that she had 
so carefully guarded throughout this 
bitter catastrophe. 

The portress advanced and said : 

“ Mile. Jeanne, Mile. d’Escloville, the 
lady from the first floor, has come to see 
you.” . 

Jeanne rose a'little surprised, and with 
a slight flush on her cheeks ; but with a 
perfectly easy and unembarrassed man- 
ner she offered Mile. d’Escloville the 
only chair unfortunately at her disposal. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said Mme. d’Esclo- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


143 


ville to Jeanne, who remained standing 
before her, as she had no seat to sit 
upon, “ I did not know, until lately, how 
ill you have been, or I would not have 
allowed you to suffer all alone. This 
isolation must have been very sad.” 

“ I am touched by your goodness, 
madame, which I have done nothing to 
merit. But I have not been left en- 
tirely alone ; I have some friends.” 

“ Yes, but they do not live with you. 
I am not mistaken — nothing replaces 
your family.” 

“You are right, madame ; but when 
one has no family — ” 

“ Poor child ! it is true, then — you 
are an orphan ?” 

“ Yes, madame. I scarcely knew my 
mother, and my father died before I was 
ten.” 

“ Oh ! I pity you with all my heart. 
But tell me all; the sincere interest I 
feel for you authorizes my curiosity.” 

Jeanne raised her large, clear, limpid, 

. calm eyes to Madame d’Escloville, who 
could read through them to the depths 
of her pure soul. 

“ I believe, madame,” said she, in her 
harmonious and thrilling voice, “ that 
you could not be indiscreet with any 
one, and I have nothing to hide.” 

Mme. d’Escloville looked around, but 
could not see the least sign of another 
seat, and she could not endure seeing 
Mile. Derville standing, in her weak 
and feeble state. 

Jeanne saw what she was looking for, 
and with a frank movement, said sweetly, 
“There is only one chair, madame, but 
I have been sitting so long — it rests me 
to stand.” 

“ This is a proud, courageous soul !” 
thought Mme. d’Escoville. “ She bears 
up well against her misfortunes, but I 
will soon have her seated.” 

She called the portress, who was still 
in Jeanne’s room, and gave her an order 
in a low tone. Soon afterwards a foot- 
man entered carrying one of those large 
arm-chairs — soft and downy — dear to 
the idler and the dreamer, which seem 
to invite you to repose^by opening their 
caressing arms, andfluiting themselves 
to each movement of the body, swallow 
it up entirely. 

Jeanne opened her large eyes, and 
stammered a thousand thanks, mingled 
with remonstrances. 

10 


“It is for the days I visit you,” said 
Madame d’Escloville, forcing Jeanne 
into the comfortable seat, while she her- 
self retained the little chair. 

“ Now,” said she, with affectionate 
gracefulness, “ you are at home with me, 
and I am at home with you ; now we can 
talk. Do you feel a little confidence in 
me, mademoiselle ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, madame, much confidence. 
One divines, one feels, one sees, how 
good you are.” 

“ Well, my child,” said Madame d’Es- 
cloville, who was fascinated by Jeanne’s 
manners and language, “ you must relate 
your history to me. It is a touching one, 
I am certain. You are not what you 
appear. I have seen too many women 
in my time not to know that you are no 
mere simple worker.” 

“It is true, madame, that my birth 
and education did not seem to require 
me to gain my living by my needle.” 

“ Ah ! I guess you have had much 
trouble ?” 

“ Alas ! madame, I have had misfor- 
tunes from my birth.” 

“ Tell them to me, dear child.” 

Encouraged by Mme. d’Escloville’s 
benevolent air, Jeanne related her whole- 
history, except the sorrows of herheart 
— these she veiled with a delicate re- 
serve. With touching sensibility, she 
told to her interested visitor of her mo- 
ther taken off in her prime; of her 
father soon following his loved one to- 
the grave; her orphaned childhood; her 
desolate youth ; Mme. de Boutaric dying 
without arranging her future ; the bril- 
liant education at Saint Denis, rendered, 
useless by her want of relations ; her first 
attempt at a liberal career being so un- 
happily crushed that she could not ob- 
tain another ; the necessity in which she-, 
had been — in which she still was — forced 
her to resort to her needle as the only 
means of living — or rather, to keep off 
starvation ! 

“ This is frightful !” murmured Mme. 
d’Eseloville, “ and I have rarely seen a 
more fatal complication of evils — of un- 
deserved misfortunes;” and she looked 
scrutinizingly at Jeanne, who, strong in 
her innocence, received her searching 
gaze unflinchingly. 

“God,” continued the noblewoman, 
“ sometimes sends us hard trials, but 
they do not last for ever, and they pre- 


144 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


pare us for the better life. Have courage, 
my child. ” 

“ Courage does not fail me — it is only 
my strength, madame, which sometimes 
gives way.” 

Mme. d’Escloville was good — of a 
serious goodness that had nothing flighty 
in its character — and she must know a 
person thoroughly — but her affection 
once given, was never taken away. 

“ It would be a shame,” said she, with 
warmth, “if a noble, honest, well-edu- 
cated person like yourself could not ob- 
tain support from the most complete 
education that the State gives its best 
servants. I will not allow this ! I will 
do all that is in my power for you.” 

“ Ah, madame ! how kind you are,” 
said J eanne, with her eyes full of tears. 

“I wish to be, but it is not always 
•easy,” replied Mme. d’Escloville. “ How- 
ever, I will seek so well that I must find 
something. You will not object to give 
lessons to a young girl in a respectable 
family ?” 

“ Object? Why, madame, it is what 
I desire above everything.” 

“ Well, it will be my business to find 
you a good scholar. In the meantime, 
you must come see me, as your neighbor. 
We will talk, you can read to me, and 
the people you meet in my parlor may 
be useful to you. Let us understand 
•each other. You can do many things 
for me. Before knowing you, I had a 
companion ; she earned more by doing 
what I ask of you, than they give you 
for this dreadful sewing. Will you be 
kind enough to take her place ? Do not 
refuse me, you proud little one ! Be- 
sides, it is only temporary — we will soon 
•do better for you.” 

Jeanne’s only reply was to kiss her 
benefactress’s hand. 

Mme. d’Escloville’s proposal had been 
made with such frank cordiality, that 
Jeanne could but accept it. 

Nearly every day was now passed on 
the first floor of the house, and the at- 
mosphere of affection, comfort and lux- 
ury soon completely restored her health. 

As she was reading the paper one 
morning after breakfast, a servant an- 
nounced a visitor. A middle-aged lady 
and a sweet young girl entered the par- 
lor. They conversed. Jeanne took her 
part in the conversation with quiet 


modesty. While she talked, they lis- 
tened. The elder lady seemed pleased, 
and Mme. d’Escloville said in a low tone 
to Jeanne : 

“ This young lady will be your pupil ! 
What do you think of her!” 

“ She seems good and intelligent, and 
I feel as if I can love her a great deal, 
if she will love me but a little.” 

“ Then you will both love each other, 
and the thing will work well.” 

Both parties refered to Mme. d’Esclo- 
ville the price of the lessons, which she 
fixed at five francs an hour ; and they 
arranged that Mile. Hortense de Cerny 
should take five a week — a little more 
than a hundred francs a month. A 
hundred francs a month for a wise, 
economical girl like Mile. Derville — a 
hundred francs a month ! It was a little 
fortune. 

Jeanne felt, during all the arrange- 
ments, a grateful and deep joy. The 
future shone in brighter colors, and her 
youth became more hopeful. 

Mme. de Cerny lived in the Hue de 
la Sante, which is not exactly near the 
Rue de Clichy, as the young teacher had 
to cross nearly the three quarters of 
Paris ; but on clear days the walk was 
very beneficial, and on rainy days she 
used the omnibus — that equipage of the 
poor. This regular exercise and fresh 
air restored her health, and the beautiful 
color once more to her cheeks. 

It never rains but it pours. J eanne’s 
first scholar brought her another, who 
lived in the Invalides — so the greater 
part of her day was passed on the road. 
All this distraction was good for her — 
it prevented her from dwelling on the 
past, which still shadowed her existence. 
The remembrance of M. de Bois-Robert 
still haunted her, but she fought vio- 
lently against the sad thought. Her 
love wound was now only a scar that 
time would entirely efface. To confess 
the truth, this love that had been so 
violent, was rather the capture of her 
youthful imagination than the free 
choice of a heart surrendering itself to 
the being chosen from all others. 

Maxence had really, then, only been 
for her the first comer in her life — 
nothing more. 

Under these circumstances, one can 
be cured — one is always cured. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


145 


CHAPTER XVII. 

T HIS employment gave Jeanne a new 
interest. She taught her scholars 
with affectionate solicitude. She loved 
them, and they adored her. She culti- 
vated their sense of right, and their 
hearts, at the* same time with their 
minds. It was a complete education 
they received from young and skilful 
hands. The pupils watched impatiently 
for their lessons ; to work with her be- 
came a pleasure. All this rejoiced the 
parents. 

At the end of two years of unceasing 
labor, Mile. Derville had more pupils 
than she could take. She raised her 
price to ten francs a lesson. She regis- 
tered herself. She moved from the 
fifth to the second floor, into a comfort- 
able and elegant apartment, furnished 
with the perfect taste she always dis- 
played. She enjoyed this commence- 
ment of luxury with a naive and childish 
happiness. Each object recalled some 
week or month of work, for most of 
them were presents from her grateful 
pupils, or ladies who felt their indebted- 
ness. She could show to all with a 
just pride, these witnesses of an honest, 
laborious life. In such circumstances, 
material joys increase doubly the moral 
joys. Those who have only had the 
one trouble of being born, and who have 
always been rich instead of becoming so, 
can never know this kind of happiness. 

I do not mean to say that Mile. Der- 
ville had made a fortune. Fortunes are 
not soon made by giving lessons; but 
she was able to lay something aside for 
her old age. When Jeanne compared 
the present with the past, she thanked 
God with tears of love and gratitude. 
Gratitude was one of Jeanne's chief 
virtues. As her fortunes improved, she 
sought every occasion to show her grati- 
tude to those friends who had stood by 
her in her hour of trial. 

Aglae Sorel and Rose dined with her 
nearly every Sunday, in company with 
those of their friends, who had aided, 
cared for, and loved her. She was now 
the benefactress. She introduced them 
into the houses of her friends. She 
made them profit by her connections; 
and by the noble, solid patronage that 
she obtained for them. She paid her 
debt a hundred fold. She was as proud 
of them as if they had been her own 


sisters; and rejoiced to witness their 
success, without a jealous reservation. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A S soon as she was rich enough to 
engage a servant, Mile. Derville 
tried to avoid the trouble of one of 
those Parisian domestics, so unfaithful 
and full of vices. She remembered 
that there was at the Rosery a noble, 
honest girl, who adored her ; her dear 
Breton, so devoted to her father, so full 
of affection for herself. She settled 
Jacqueline in the Rue de Clichy, and 
she kept her house with order and 
economy. The robust country woman 
regretted, at first, the loss of the flowers, 
trees, and fresh air of the Rosery ; she 
missed the sea also, with its murmuring 
waves, its squalls and its tempests. 

But in Paris she had Jeanne, and 
Jeanne was worth all that — she was 
worth more. After Mile. Derville had 
shown Jacqueline all Paris, she was 
forced to confess, that next to Av- 
ranches, it was the prettiest place she 
had ever seen. She was much fright- 
ened at the high prices of all the neces- 
saries of life, and would have asked 
nothing better than to allow her mistress 
and herself to die of hunger, so as not 
to ruin her. Intelligent and sagacious, 
she soon learned the ins and outs of 
Parisian trade, and the ruses of skilful 
housekeepers. She kept Jeanne’s house 
with regularity and order, and took 
good care of the young girl. 

Gravis was not forgotten. Jeanne 
wrote him a charming letter, relating 
her past misfortunes and her present 
happiness, telling him, that in the depth 
of her misery she had thought of turn- 
ing to him alone and offering him her 
hand, and that she had never forgotten 
his kindness, and now felt as if he 
ought to be the first informed of her 
good fortune and happiness. 

The good notary had to wipe his 
spectacles several times while reading 
this not very lengthy epistle. 

“Poor dear child, I would have ren- 
dered her very happy, if she would 
have allowed it.” Gravis was sad — 
tears weighed heavily on him. 

His daughter had married, leaving 
the house empty — the substitute had 


146 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


captured the heart and “ dot” of Rose- 
Celeste. Marriage had not softened 
this old maid; she would always be 
acrimonious, cold, and dry. 

The ineffaceable impression Jeanne 
had made on the notary (notaries ought 
to be in parchment like their deeds), 
hindered Gravis from marrying the 
second time. He was sincerely rejoiced 
to hear of Jeanne’s good fortune, for he 
had always feared for her. 

Jeanne showed an earnest and de- 
ferential respect to Mme. d’Escloville, 
whose efficient protection, even more 
than what she had done, had saved her 
in her greatest need. Of all her friends, 
she cultivated her the most. 

Jeanne’s life was quiet, calm, almost 
happy. The remembrances of her mis- 
fortunes were less bitter; she felt now 
she was worth something better than 
M. de Bois-Robert. She felt that a man 
who could so quickly forget her, did 
not deserve her everlasting regrets. 
Since the day of their marriage she had 
never met himself nor his wife. She 
heard no more of the baron. He had 
not tried to see her again, which cer- 
tainly showed good taste. There was 
a total eclipse of all the family. They 
had disappeared from her existence as 
the shooting stars vanish in the heavens. 

After Mme. de l’lsle’s cruel indif- 
ference, Jeanne thought it would be 
undignified to care about her. She 
therefore lived in an entirely new life, 
without any connection with the old. 

The first person belonging to her old 
world that crossed Jeanne’s path was, 
however, this same Madame de l’Isle, 
of whom she had so much to complain. 
Chance alone was the culprit. 

It was on Sunday, whilst leaving mass, 
Jeanne was descending the steps of 
the peristyle of La Madeline, that fash- 
ionable church, as Constance came up. 
Jeanne had a fresh spring costume. 
March was precocious' this year ! March 
is as gallant a month as his patron. 
The women are the most charming, at this 
time, in Paris; they revive with the 
fine days. 

Jeanne looked beautiful and happy in 
her becoming costume, as she slowly and 
gracefully descended the steps. Mme. 
de l’lsle loved happiness. If Jeanne 
had looked sad and not pretty, Con- 
stance would most probably have passed 


by without noticing her ; but as it was, 
the woman of the w T orld stopped first. 

“ Why, good-morning, dear charming 
one, I am delighted to meet you again ! 
what has become of you for this perfect 
age? — you naughty forgetful one.” 

“ Goodness ! madame, I have become 
what I have been able-*! have con- 
tended, I have worked, and for want of 
protectors I have protected myself.” 

“ With merit like yours, one must 
always obtain their ends.” 

“ One is never certai^, even when 
they reach them.” 

“You are too modest, dear child ; but 
your friends have more confidence in 
you than you have in yourself.” 

“ This confidence, madame, encou- 
rages them as much as it honors me.” 

“ But why have you not tried to see 
me ?” 

“ And where could I have seen you, 
if you please ?” 

“ At my own house, I suppose.” 

“ Excuse me, but I thought you were 
all this time in the South.” 

Mme. de l’lsle understood the sar- 
casm of this reply. 

“ Indeed, you are mistaken,” said she, 
pressing both Jeanne’s hands; “ I was 
with my mother, whose health caused 
me much justifiable anxiety, as I have 
since had the misfortune to lose her. 
When I returned to Paris I had a thou- 
sand sad things to which I was obliged 
to attend, and this made me forget your 
address. All this is true — say, am I 
forgiven ?” 

“ Oh, the fault is so slight and the 
defence so skilful.” 

“ Then give me your hand, let us 
speak of the future and forget the past.” 

Jeanne gave her hand to Mme. de 
l’lsle, who pressed it again with all the 
signs of lively affection, saying — 

“ We are in a public place — we have 
so much to say to each other. Let me 
see — where do you live ?” 

“If I tell you, you will forget.” 

“ Tell me, nevertheless.” 

“ Street de Clichy, No. 49.” 

“ I will call for you at three o’clock 
to drive in the Bois. I am going to try 
a new pair of horses — a present from my 
husband. You will come with me; it 
will be a double fete.” 

Jeanne desired to decline, but Mme 
de l’lsle would not give her time. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


147 


“I will take no excuse; I will call 
for you at three.” 

“ Strange woman !” murmured Jeanne, 
“ not in reality wicked, but thoughtless. 
She is mistaken if she thinks we can 
visit ; I have no time for worldly friends ; 
but for once, I like very well to see if 
the arbutus is*in flower ; if the spring is 
advanced. She will speak of people of 
whom I seldom think, and who have 
entirely forgotten my existence. Hold ! 
It seems as if that was nothing to me !” 

Mme. de l’lsle was of a military punc- 
tuality, and arrived at the moment. 
Jeanne was ready waiting, when the 
double knock sounded at the door. 
Jacqueline opened it, and ran to Jeanne 
saying, “ It is a beautiful woman, who 
asks for you !” 

Jeanne had hardly ordered her to be 
shown up when Constance appeared, 
dressed most beautifully, 

“ How charming it is here !” said she, 
examining all Jeanne's pretty things 
like a May bug, turning her head from 
side to side, in a hurry to be off. “ Very 
good ! very good ! truly very pretty ; but 
let us go ; I will come back again ! You 
should have a little groom to announce 
your friends; it would not cost much, 
and it is a good thing for a female estab- 
lishment. Where did you catch that 
big ‘ gen d’arme V ” 

“In the salt water — under the Mount 
Saint Michel ! She is, at first, rather a 
droll figure, but you soon get used to 
her appearance. She is an old servant 
of my father's — reliable, honest, and 
faithful.” 

“ Keep her, then — she is a treasure ! 
A black diamond, a fine pearl ! but keep 
also the little groom ! A negro, if you 
please — the color is nothing, only you 
must have one. One gets them as big 
as your fist. I could put mine in my 
pocket !” 

“He would bfe well lodged ! But you 
forget, dear madame, the difference in 
our destinies. You belong to the rich 
world, I to the poor. You only know the 
elegancies, luxuries, and pleasures of life ; 
I only the work and the cares, which 
I accept without murmuring, but by 
which I obtain my living. My groom 
or my tiger would be very useful on the 
days I have the honor of receiving you ! 
Would it not be very useless to keep one 
to open the door for my little scholars ?” 


“ You are right,” replied Madame de 
l’lsle, whose thoughts had already flown 
to some other object. “ How bright the 
sun is. I am sure we will meet all 
Paris.” 

“ All my Paris consists of a few pu- 
pils, and we will hardly meet them on 
the Bois. But I see you, dear madame. 
I am with you; this is all my Paris 
till to-morrow.” 

“ I am not so amiable as this ; but I 
love you enough to merit all these pretty 
things. We have taken a charming 
house in the street de la Pepini&re ; not 
very large, but beautifully arranged.” 

“ I am sure of that, if it belongs to 
you.” 

“We receive a few — sometimes a great 
many. I have been in deep black for 
my mother, to whom I owe a great deal, 
for she adored me. But I have a few 
years of youth left, and I wish to enjoy 
them. We will have our soirees, like 
those we had at Maisons-Lafitte, and you 
will be their most beautiful ornament, 
darling !” 

“You are too good; but this cannot 
be, for a thousand reasons — one 'is, I 
have nothing to wear.” 

“ If you have no better reason — ” 

“ Then my time is distributed among 
my pupils, so that very little remains to 
myself.” 

“ And do you call this life V* 

“ I call that my life.” 

“ We will change all this a little.” 

“ Indeed, it is impossible. I go no- 
where, and can only visit you on rare 
occasions.” 

“ Well, we will see. I have a bril- 
liant staff around me. I will order one 
of my aides-de-camp to carry you off. I 
have irresistible ones. See how beauti- 
fully my horses trot ! M. de l'lsle has 
executed my wishes nobly.” 

Every one looked at the splendid turn 
out, and the beautiful women it con- 
tained. 

The day was perfect ! The Bois one 
mass of fashion, riches, and beauty. 
Two years sooner this would have been 
a dangerous spectacle for Jeanne. The 
scholar of Saint Denis, the friend of the 
Blanchelandes, then remembered too 
well her deceived hopes, her vanished 
dreams, and the comparison between 
what she was and what she saw, would 
be painful. But now the hour of peril 


148 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


had passed; experience, so dearly bought, 
was useful. Foolish illusions could not 
influence her correct ideas. Her head, 
calm, cold, she carried higher than when 
she left the institution. She was under 
the dominion of good sense, and felt that 
henceforward nothing could lead her 
away. She had conquered herself for 
ever. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

J EANNE had only been in the Bois 
once during two years, and then she 
took her Bretonne, who wished to know 
if there were any trees in Paris; but 
she had never seen it in the midst of its 
worldly splendors. 

Constance related all the fashionable 
gossip to Jeanne, pointing out the he- 
roes and heroines of each story as they 
passed. Constance was a speaking ga- 
zette, whose malice was seasoned with 
sprightliness. Jeanne was interested in 
spite of herself ; for, after all, she was 
not born to be a recluse, and her nature 
would show itself. After driving for 
some time, the hour of return arrived, 
and all turned towards Paris as if by 
the word of command. 

“ What is worth taking is worth keep- 
ing,” said Constance. “ I will keep you 
— I will not release you — you must dine 
with us — only four or five persons, 
counting my husband and myself — few 
enough. You need not dress; come 
just as you are ; come see how we will 
ail honor you. I will send you home 
this evening. In fact, you cannot say 
no.” 

“ Then I must say yes.” 

“ You must, indeed ; my conscience 
pricks me a little on your account. It 
is true I did not know your address, but 
by searching I might have found it. 
You see I am sincere — I have been 
rather lukewarm in your service — I see 
my fault and repent.” 

“ When I had so much need of aid,” 
thought Jeanne. 

“ I do not pretend that the sin should 
be pardoned because I confess it ; but 
you will see if I do not repair my 
fault.” 

u That is already done.” 

“ Rely on me now — I can perhaps 
give you good advice. Will you be 
guided somewhat by your old friend ?” 


Jeanne nodded her head with a smile. 

“ As you are obliged to work, (your 
own words), I advise you to take pupils 
from the best and richest families only ; 
they are more profitable and agreeable. 
Some happy, unexpected event — but a 
very probable one for you — may soon 
snatch you from this life of care, to 
give you the destiny you merit. There^ 
is something in me that tells me this.” 

“ Madame, these are dangerous 
thoughts,” said Jeanne; ,“ I have in- 
dulged in them, but they cost too dear.” 

“You are right, Miss Wisdom ! But 
on the real facts accept my counsel. Di- 
rect your instruction to the arts. You 
sing like an angel ; you play like Chopin. 
Please forget a little history, geography 
and grammar; give music lessons and 
sing in the parlors. Leave the miserable 
position of instructress, rise to the rank 
of artist. With your great talents you 
will be the equal of the noblest and 
haughtiest. Singers are now the queens 
of the world — look at their marriages !” 

“ What you say is true, but it requires 
a great deal of talent to be an artist; 
and I cannot run the risk. I require 
something certain and positive; this is 
absolutely necessary ; one day must pro- 
vide for the next.” 

“ You are right, I will not advise you 
to quit the substance for the shadow, 
but still think you can do both. Keep 
the best of your patrons and add some 
brilliant pupils, who will enable you to 
make your mark in the world, which is 
your destined place.” 

“ Well, obtain me two such pupils, 
and I will try to do as you desire. Will 
this please you?” 

“ I am enchanted ! but tell me, do 
you never see the Blanchelandes ?” 

This sudden remembrance embar- 
rassed Mile. Derville, who blushed and 
stammered as she replied : “ It is long 
since I have heard of them.” 

“ I believe your friendship was broken 
rather suddenly ?” 

“ Very suddenly !” 

“You speak strangely !” said Con- 
stance, fixing a penetrating look on 
Jeanne. “Will you let me be inquisi- 
tive ?” 

“ As you please.” 

Had Victorine’s marriage anything 
to do with the estrangement?” 

“ Anything ? Everything 1 I wish 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


149 


to tell you all. If the Count Robert 
had been master of his own actions, 
perhaps he would not have been in haste 
to fulfil the wishes of his family. I 
seemed the obstacle to these reasonable 
projects. I then did as any other deli- 
cate woman. I withdrew from their 
life, and Victorine has married the man 
I loved.” 

“ I would not be in her place,” said 
Mme. de l’lsle. “Any one who has 
loved you, will always love you. Indeed 
I pity both ; but tell me the whole, for I 
feed on these little things, as a cat does 
on sugar and milk.” 

“ There are no details. There is no- 
thing to relate — I left — they got mar- 
ried — this is all.” 

“ And have you never seen them 
since ?” 

“ Never.” 

“ How ! never ?” 

“ No ; shortly after their marriage 
they travelled.” 

“ This is the fashion now. It is ne- 
cessary to enjoy the honeymoon on the 
highway.” 

“ I think they went to Germany.” 

“ Yes ) I am told the journey was 
recommended by their relations. The 
husband needed distraction. Since 
their return, they do as all rich people ; 
pass part of the year in Paris, and the 
rest in the country.” 

Jeanne listened silently to Constance 
— her heart beat quickly at times, but 
she soon recovered her self-command, 
and seemed as if she had never known 
Yictorine de Blanehelande; never loved 
the Count Maxence de Bois-Robert. 

“ Tell me ! be frank ! what would you 
do if you met them ?” 

“ Nothing, I hope ! At any rate, I 
neither fear nor desire to do so.” 

“ If it were me, I would be curious to 
see them and the baron.” 

“Oh, him indeed !” 

“ It seems that — ” 

“ He is not worth speaking about ! ” 
said Jeanne, with a significant frown. 

“ Oh !” thought Mme de lTsle,“ there 
is a secret history here, which this 
beautiful discreet one must tell me some 
day. I will let it pass now, it is too soon.” 

Constance met many friends as they 
returned, and was bowing continually 
from one side to the other. Many 


horsemen passed, and were astonished 
at not knowing the beauty by her side. 

The young girl could not help a feel- 
ing of innocent vanity, on seeing the 
little success she obtained in her first re- 
appearance in the fashionable world. 

“ Goodness !” said she, with ingenu- 
ous frankness ; “ will all this commence 
again.” “All this,” to use her words, 
which had been agreeable to Jeanne, 
“ all this ” was now a matter of indiffer- 
ence to her. “ All this” was the trite 
attention men pay to pretty women. 
Jeanne was now above “ all this,” all 
such triumphs — vanity ended where 
dignity commenced. 

Mme. de PIsle conducted Mile. Der- 
ville to her home, and was pleased to 
see her admire it. They had a family 
dinner; and she sent Jeanne home, after 
making her promise to call again. 


CHAPTER XX. 

LLE. DERYILLE formed ac- 
quaintances with Constance’s 
friends, but accepted very few invita- 
tions — work, and the duties of her pro- 
fession, were her excuses. 

Jeanne, by this course, soon became 
the rage. She had followed Mme. de 
PIsle's counsel, she taught only music, she 
was now an artist. They registered their 
names in advance to obtain her instruc- 
tion, that they paid more dearly for 
than you can imagine. She was sur- 
rounded by a prestige that is seldom ob- 
tained by a young girl. The greater part 
of her success was owing to Mme. de 
l’lsle, who had eutered, though rather 
tardily, into her role of protectress to an 
interesting orphan, with all her ener- 
gies. 

The most beautiful stone, the richest 
diamond, the purest sapphire, the most 
sparkling ruby must be cut and care- 
fully mounted to show their value and 
to display all their fire. 

Constance showed forth with much 
skill all the merits of her young friend. 
Her superior education, her numerous 
talents, her distinction, her beauty, her 
birth and her misfortunes. Paris is 
peopled with the sheep of Panurge — 
when one jumps over all follow. They 
followed Mme. de l’lsle’s lead, and 



150 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


thought of Joanne with her ideas. 
Jeanne’s affairs looked well. 

“My good Jacqueline,” said Mile. 
Derville to her faithful Bretonne, “if all 
goes on like this we can retire to the 
Rosery in a few years and live peace- 
ably near those who sleep below.” 

“ Hum ! that will suit me very well ! 
hut I wish better things for you, Mile. 
Jeanne — a good husband. I shall not 
feel satisfied till you have one. lentil 
then I sleep with one eye opened.” 

But a husband to suit Mile. Derville 
was a difficult thing to find. Men do not 
marry for love in these days, and nothing 
else would now satisfy Mile. Derville. 

Many admired her, and she could have 
recompensed them by an unalterable, 
unending devotion, but she had no 
dower ! 

Be frank, sir, — you, who read this — 
would you have married without a dower? 

Jeanne’s past experience had been 
very useful to her. She understood men, 
and did not expect them to marry. 
Jeanne worked hard, and her partial re- 
turn to the gay world gave zest to all 
her duties. The scholars felt her joy- 
ousness. The human soul is a spring 
which must not always be stretched. 
The cord even of Apollo’s bow must be 
relaxed from time to time. 

One morning, the day after a fete, 
where she had met with much success 
— the success of a woman and the suc- 
cess of an artist — Jeanne received two 
lines from Mme. de l’lsle : 

“ Come to our house this evening ; we 
will probably have some music, but I 
wish you — I order you — to be as beauti- 
ful as possible. This is such an easy 
thing for you to do, that I will not tell 
you why. Constance.” 

“ I did not intend to go out this even- 
ing,” thought Jeanne, “but since she 
desires it — we must do something for 
those who love us. I wonder if this 
beautiful lady really does care for me. 
A little, perhaps; at any rate she is 
very kind and tries to benefit me. She 
thinks too much of dress. I cannot 
employ 1 Worth ;’ one of his dresses 
would swallow up my whole year’s in- 
come. This proud Constance must con- 
descend to receive me in a simple white 
dress. I will have my hair arranged to 
please her — this is all I can do.” 


When the evening arrived, Jeanne 
entered her friend’s saloon alone, as 
usual; she preferred the evenings spent 
there, for all were so kind to her, and 
she felt as if she was loved by them. 
She was slightly curious, in her inmost 
soul, to know why Constance particu- 
larly desired her presence — but she 
would not ask. 

Constance was waiting to receive her, 
and advanced to meet her with a shade 
of confusion on her brow. 

“Good evening, White Rose,” said 
she, holding out her hand, “ I see you 
have obeyed my commands — you are as 
beautiful as an angel I Does your heart 
beat quickly ?” 

“ With pleasure ! dear madame, when 
I see you.” 

“ Oh ! you are loo sweet.” 

“ It does not beat more quickly this 
evening than usual.” 

“ I love to see you so brave.” 

“ What bravery can I need in your 
house ?” 

“ To be frank with you, Jeanne, have 
you the courage to meet suddenly some 
old acquaintances ?” 

“If you had doubted me, I do not 
suppose you would have run the risk of 
my meeting them.” 

“ Well said, my valiant friend ! Know 
then, that the trinity of Blanchelandes, 
not to forget the Count de Bois-Robert, 
are now in the large saloon.” 

This was very unexpected news to 
Jeanne Derville, and she could not hin- 
der a slight feeling of emotion. 

“ This is not right,” said she, to her 
friend; “you have deceived me — you 
ought to have told me before.” 

“And if I had, you would have re- 
fused to come.” 

“I am not so sure of that; but 3 
would have consulted my strength.” 

“ This would have been useless — I 
answer for you; but believe me, little 
one, until you have conquered this last 
assault, you cannot be sure of yourself. 
You do not know your strength, or what 
you can accomplish. This will prove 
it.” 

“Well, to the proof then,” replied 
Jeanne, who felt her calmness and 
strength return. 

M. de l’lsle approached, and offered 
his arm to lead her into the next room. 

Her first glance fell on Victorine, the 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


151 


Countess of Bois-Robert, seated opposite 
the door, alongside of her mother, Mme. 
de Blanchelande, who had now the ap- 
pearance of a robust lady verging on 
old age. Victorine, on the contrary, 
had become as thin since her marriage 
as her mother had increased in size. 
She had lost the freshness of her youth, 
which was her greatest charm. Truly 
beautiful women, with regular features, 
can alone triumph over the changes of 
sickness and health, becoming more and 
more like the ancient marble statues, 
which retain their radiant serenity im- 
pervious to all catastrophes. While 
those who have only the “ Beaute du 
diable,” lose theirs at the first trial. 

Victorine was a proof of this remark ; 
she looked sad and thin — you rather 
pitied her. Jeanne formed a striking 
contrast. Proud, elegant, radiant, con- 
scious of the superiority education had 
added to her precious gifts of nature, 
the former scholar of St. Denis en- 
joyed, at this moment, a brilliant re- 
venge for the indignities shown to her 
while at Blanchelande. Scarcely had 
she made her appearance in the saloon, 
when she was eagerly surrounded by 
those who ever formed her little court — 
ever desirous of obtaining a first quad- 
rille or waltz. She accepted — she re- 
fused — she made engagements with the 
laughing coquetry of a young queen, 
who sees loving subjects in all the men. 
Leaning on M. de l’lsle’s arm, she 
crossed the saloon, bowing with perfect 
equality and grace to the ladies she 
passed. 

“ Where do you wish to go ?” said 
her guide. “You know this is the 
dancing-room.” 

u Into the other apartment,” said 
Jeanne, who had not yet seen all whom 
she expected to meet. 

She entered a boudoir, called the 
“ Chinese saloon” from its decorations. 
The Baron de Blanchelande was playing 
whist at a table. The lively Edward 
seemed at last to have abdicated the 
sceptre of man of the world, for that 
of one of its noble fathers. But the 
unexpected appearance of Jeanne 
seemed to him to take twenty years 
from his life, and to his partner to add 
fifty years to it, for he played so badly, 
in the hopes of being at leisure, that 
the game was soon lost. Throwing some 


louis on the table, he arose, and ap- 
proached Mile. Derville. His old re- 
collections were so vivid, that he saluted 
her with as much embarrassment as if 
he had just left college. 

Mile. Derville bowed slightly, with 
great indifference, as if to keep the 
man at a distance. M. de ITsle placed 
a chair for her, and returned to the 
dancing-room. Jeanne seated herself 
near a lady friend, turning her back on 
Victorine’s father, and was soon the 
centre of a joyous group. Kept at a 
distance by Jeanne’s manner, and not 
knowing any of those who surrounded 
her, the baron remained outside of 
the circle, watching and listening. 
Mile. Derville did not seem to notice 
his existence ; she was so gay and 
happy that nothing seemed as if it 
could disturb her. 

The ball commenced, and Jeanne 
was soon led from her quiet corner. 
She danced all the time, and was the 
acknowledged queen of her friend’s 
soiree. She enjoyed her triumph with 
a modest assurance, as if she was per- 
fectly accustomed, and therefore slightly 
indifferent to her success. 

At last, after dancing a Mazourka 
with a secretary of state, who was very 
intimate at Mme. de l’lsle’s, and whose 
conversation she enjoyed, she said : “Let 
us walk round the rooms, and see all the 
celebrities. My friend invited me to 
spend a very sociable evening, and it is 
a grand fete.” 

“ What else could you expect ? The 
beautiful Constance has five or six 
hundred friends, and two thousand ac- 
quaintances. But who do you wish to 
see ?” 

“ Every one — no one in particular.” 

Jeanne was still talking, when she 
suddenly found herself in front of Max- 
ence de Bois-Robert. A sudden pain 
shot through the depths of her soul. 
Her color went and came. She soon 
regained her calmness, and not a shadow 
passed over her marble countenance. 
Nor did the young man on whose arm 
she leaned, feel her tremble in the least. 

As for the Count de Bois-Robert, he 
was so totally unprepared for Jeanne’s 
appearance that he backed into the bou- 
doir Jeanne was entering. Jeanne and 
Maxence — their meeting was now in- 
evitable. No matter how much embar- 


152 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


rassed a man of the world may be by cer- 
tain events, be quickly recovers himself, 
and coolly faces the most unforeseen cir- 
cumstances. Maxence would have given 
much to have been a hundred miles 
from Paris at this moment; for Mile. 
Derville was the last person he wished 
to see in the same room with his wife. 
But he hid his annoyance, and saluted 
the young lady as if he had seen her 
the night before. An acute observer 
would have noticed their agitation, and 
seen how curiously they secretly scruti- 
nized each other. In these contests that 
are fought in a boudoir or saloon, the 
woman’s tactics are greater than the 
man’s power. She nearly always comes 
off with the honors of war. Whilst 
Maxence was uncertain in his move- 
ments, Jeanne with a prompt, frank, 
loyal manner, which denied all remem- 
brances of the past, and distinctly set- 
tled the future, addressed him in these 
words — 

“G-ood evening, count, I am glad to 
see you again. You have taken several 
journeys since we last met. I hope 
they have been agreeable. I am told 
you are married to my old friend Mile, 
de Blanchelande. I thought I saw her 
just now in the dancing-room. ” 

All this was said in a tone and man- 
ner that stupefied Maxence. The young 
lady he had formerly known was a little 
timid scholar, blushing at every word ; 
beautiful in her natural grace, and igno- 
rant of herself. The one he now saw, 
in one of the most elegant saloons of 
Paris, seemed radiant with beauty and 
intelligence, and the self-reliance which 
is gained by a noble contest and the 
consciousness of duty each day accom- 
plished. 

When Maxence first met Jeanne on 
that lovely autumn morning, reading in 
the park of Blanchelande, she was on 
the threshold of life, fearing to face her 
destiny, which threatened only misfor- 
tunes. 

He saw her now, returning from the 
contest victorious, mistress of circum- 
stances, mistress of herself, and he felt 
she was capable of ruling over all such 
as he was himself by her superior nature. 

Whilst M. de Bois-Bobert stammered 
an embarrassed reply, Jeanne said with 
as much ease as if she had been receiv- 
ing an ordinary acquaintance in her 


own house, “ Will you sit down ?” and 
pointed to a chair near the fire-place, as 
if she were doing the honors of the man- 
sion. 

He seated himself opposite to her like 
a culprit before his judge. 

“ Monsieur de Verne, I will not force 
your feet to remain quiet the rest of the 
evening, M. de Bois-Robert will lead me 
back to my place.” 

M. de Verne understood her, and 
withdrew. Maxence and Jeanne were 
left alone. 

When two people love each other the 
first moment they are alone is delicious ; 
but if they no longer love it is painful 
and embarrassing — even agonizing in 
some cases. 

Without a word being spoken, the 
mere fact of being tete-it-tete with each 
other recalled the past, so bitter, so 
cruel for Mile. Derville, so shameful for 
M. de Bois-Robert. They both felt it 
was impossible to avoid the subject. 

“ Mademoiselle or madame ?” asked 
the count, who knew nothing of Jeanne’s 
history. 

“ I am not married,” said Jeanne, 
with stern dignity. “ I have kept my 
faith.” 

“And I have broken mine !” replied 
the count, lowering his head. “ I have 
apparently wronged you, mademoi- 
selle r 

“Apparently !” said Jeanne, with a 
singularly bitter smile. “ Thus Made- 
moiselle de Blanchelande is only an ap- 
pearance ?” 

“ Oh ! don’t let us dispute about 
words ! You are quicker than I am. I 
yield in advance.” 

“ I did not select the words, sir ; I 
employed those you used yourself. You 
have done me the honor to state that 
you have only apparently wronged me.” 

“If you would be kind enough to 
listen to me ” 

“ It seems to me I have been doing 
nothing else for some time.” 

“ If you could only realize my true 
position ! What between my mother 
and the Blanchelandes, it was fright- 
ful r 

“ Do you think mine was any better ?” 

“ I was ignorant of yours.” 

“ And you were unmindful of me, 
above all others ?” 

“ I do not say so.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


153 


“ I do, though.” 

“ Ah, mademoiselle, you are without 
pity” 

“ Do you think, sir, that I have much 
cause to feel for you ?” 

“No, you have the wrongs and jus- 
tice on your side, I hasten to acknow- 
ledge. But if you are so immovable, I 
can never finish all I have to say.” 

“ You can, however, continue. After 
what I have heard, I can listen to all the 
rest.” 

Victorine’s husband still felt Jeanne’s 
fascinations, and liked to accuse him- 
self to her, in the hopes that she would 
accept some of his excuses., 

He continued : “ I did not consent to 
marry Mile, de Blanchelande until they 
threatened to keep me in Italy. If I 
staid in Italy I would lose you as cer- 
tainly as if I married. My mother is 
dead, now; I will not follow her with 
useless recriminations ; but she always 
exercised an influence over my youth 
that I never dreamed of resisting. 
You were the subject of my first con- 
test with her. She brought all her forces 
to bear. She insinuated many things 
against you that were confirmed in my 
eyes by the fatal meeting at Blanche- 
lande. In my despair I consented. Now 
you know all.” 

“ Yes, I know all,” replied Jeanne, 
raising her head. “ Yes, I know all. 
But you, sir, know nothing! Whilst you 
left me to hopelessness and despair — 
whilst you disowned me — all the con- 
stancy, devotion, and loyalty of a wo- 
man’s heart was given to you. I be- 
lieved, I hoped, I loved, I endured with 
courage the hardest trials. I waited for 
you, firmly and constantly looking to the 
promised future, strengthening myself 
by the thought of your love. I fought 
a harder fight than yours; one against 
poverty, sickness, isolation, and hunger. 
Whilst you passed your honeymoon on 
the Rhine, I was dying of sorrow, misery, 
and despair in a garret, where I received 
as a last outrage the obsessions of your 
father-in-law. It is my turn now, sir, 
to say you know all. You know your life 
and mine; compare and judge them!” 

“ And so you waited for me ?” 

“ Did I not pledge myself to you ?” 

“Ah ! If I had only believed that ! 
nothing could have prevailed against my 
love !” 


“ Yes, I waited for you? I expected 
you. Notwithstanding the extraordinary 
silence that followed your departure; not- 
withstanding the obstacles that seemed 
to increase each moment between us; 
yes, notwithstanding all, I waited for 
you. Oh ! if your promises made at 
Blanchelande had been sincere; if you 
had been as firm in your resolutions as 
myself ; if at any cost you had remained 
true to your plighted faith, the world 
might have separated us for a time, but 
it could not have hindered us meeting 
some day — and for ever ! For nothing, 
nothing, I assure you, could have made 
me break my sacred vows; and, fool as 
I was, I should not have thought my 
happiness too dearly bought.” 

“ And I have lost all this — all this by 
my own fault !” were Maxence’s bitter 
reflections. 

He looked at Jeanne in the looking- 
glass. Her emotions had heightened 
and given an indefinable charm to her 
beauty — she would have seemed fasci- 
nating to a careless observer, how much 
more then to the man who had loved 
and who loved her still ! 

The music sounded sweetly from the 
adjoining room. 

“ Oh ! how miserable I am,” said 
Maxence, “ how I have fallen into their 
snares — no, I feel you can never for- 
give me, mademoiselle. I believed — I 
was made to believe — this did it all ! 
I swear to you, Jeanne, this is what 
ruined me! They were so skilful in 
their tactics. And then — I tell you 
now the last thing — that meeting of 
you and him in a carriage, as I was 
on my way to see you — oh ! that did 
it all.” 

“ Indeed ! what did you then be- 
lieve ?” said Jeanne in a quiet, com- 
pressed tone. 

“ Well !” said he, trying to keep back 
the harsh words that would come in 
spite of himself, “ I believed that you — 
that M. de Blanchelande — ” 

He dared not continue, and he looked 
at Mile. Derville. 

Jeanne was now whiter than her 
dress; if she had not veiled her eyes 
under their large lids, Maxence would 
have been frightened at their dark 
flashes of lightning. 

“ So ! you believed,” said she at last, 
keeping her eyes still lowered, “you 


154 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


believed that I, my father’s daughter — 
I, who have suffered so much — even 
hunger itself — to be able, sir, to walk be- 
fore you with a high head — that I 
should have been, for money, the mis- 
tress of an old roue — and that, too, 
when I loved you ! Behold ! Count de 
Bois-Robert, I condemn you to the re- 
collection of what you have just said 
— I wish you no other revenge or pun- 
ishment !” 

And without another word, beautiful 
as a statue, with a proud, majestic ges- 
ture that a sculptor would have immor- 
talized as a specimen of human passions, 
without deigning’ to honor, even with a 
look, the petrified Maxence, who seemed 
pinned to the earth, she advanced to 
the door. On the threshold, she was 
stopped by the entrance of the Baron 
de Blanchelande. 

“ Ah ! it is you, sir,” said Jeanne, 
moving to let him pass; “come in, I 
pray you ! you are wanted. Come reas- 
sure your son-in-law — who accuses me 
of having been your mistress.” 

The baron had seen J eanne enter the 
boudoir on the arm of a handsome 
young man, and seized with jealousy had 
followed her. Heaven had punished 
the barom for his inordinate lust of 
women by causing his passions to in- 
crease as his advanced age rendered his 
success almost hopeless. He had never 
forgotten Jeanne. Absence had in- 
creased his feelings, and since he had 
seen her so ill in the miserable garret, a 
prey to all the horrors of sickness and 
poverty, abandoned to the care of that 
frightful “Megoera,” contending against 
delirium and death, he had the sad 
scene always in his mind, forming a 
striking contrast to the bright and joy- 
ous picture of the two girls supping with 
him in the English coffee house, the 
night they left Saint Denis. He had 
thought of her lately only as a prey to 
misery and want ! and he found her op- 
posite to him, a perfect woman of the 
world, living an apparently happy life, 
and enjoying all the delights of fortune. 
Perhaps she owed them to another ! 
Perhaps she had gained them herself ! 
What had happened to Mile. Derville to 
cause this transformation ? He did not 
know, and he dared not ask ; but he 
thought by watching her unobserved he 
could find out. 


Constance unfortunately killed this 
fine project, and accidentally or mali- 
ciously she took his arm and detained 
him a little while by her side. Some 
fetters cannot be broken ; nothing is 
stronger than a thread of silk. 

He followed Jeanne as soon as he was 
free, and presented himself at this inop- 
portune moment at the door of the 
boudoir, already occupied by the Count 
de Bois-Robert and Mile. Derville. 

His son-in-law was the last person he 
desired to see near the young girl, for 
he felt he had too good cause to be jeal- 
ous of him. He was hesitating whether 
to advance or retire, when Jeanne thus 
indignantly and openly apostrophized 
him. 

“ Come then, sir ; • come re-assure 
your son-in-law, who accuses me with 
having been your mistress !” and with- 
out waiting for the baron’s reply, Mile. 
Derville left the boudoir in the posses- 
sion of the two men who loved her, and 
therefore detested each other. 

“ She seems in a furious mood !” said 
M. de Blanchelande to Maxence. “ What 
have you said to her ?” 

“We spoke of you!” replied Bois- 
Robert. 

“I am sorry for that, for the conver- 
sation could not have been agreeable, 
judging by her expression of face.” 

“ She had been recalling some painful 
remembrances.” 

“ And she has chosen you for her 
confidante ?” 

“ She has not chosen me — she found 
me. She has given me no news. What 
she believed she revealed to me I have 
known for a long time.” 

But feeling that all this discussion 
with his father-in-law was useless and 
irritating, Maxence arose and left with- 
out another word. 

The first thing he saw in the ball- 
room was Jeanne, dancing in the same 
quadrille, opposite to his wife. Chance 
is malicious sometimes. Jeanne had not 
sought the place, and Victorine had not 
dared to avoid it. The thing could not 
have been helped without the risk of a 
disturbance. This, a woman of the 
world never permits under any circum- 
stances. 

Yictorine’s marriage was contracted 
under unfavourable circumstances, and 
she could not expect to find fireside hap- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


155 


piness. Mile, de Blanchelande had felt 
her pride wounded at the idea that a 
young girl, her inferior in rank and for- 
tune, could vie with her for a husband. 
Anger and pride had crushed all other 
sentiments. She had wished to con- 
quer this- audacious rival; and, thanks 
to a thousand favorable circumstances, 
aided by perfidious chances, the rich 
heiress had defeated the poor orphan. 
This success, though it flattered her 
vanity, did not satisfy her hopes. She 
was punished by the knowledge that the 
image of another came between her hus- 
band and herself. She must renounce 
all the ideas and joys of a marriage for 
love. This grieved her at first, but she 
found consolation in her house and sur- 
roundings, and felt that, after all, she 
only followed the common routine. If 
this fact did not console her, it helped 
her to be resigned. 

But when she suddenly found herself 
opposite Jeanne, and compared herself 
with her old friend, she understood her 
just value, and regretted that she had 
not before seen the danger to which her 
husband would be exposed. She now 
exaggerated the peril ; women always go 
from one extreme to another. At any 
rate it seemed impossible that if Max- 
ence had ever loved Mile. Derville, that 
he should now ever cease to love her. 
These not particularly joyous reflections 
threw a shade over the brow of the 
young countess and gave her a sad air, 
which heightened still more Jeanne’s su- 
perior brightness and impassible serenity. 

Maxence remained leaning against a 
door, heedless of the malicious remarks 
of those around, absorbed in watching 
and comparing the two women, between 
whom he had hesitated only to choose 
so badly, and compared secretly his 
destiny as it was, with what it might 
have been. 

Jeanne, calm and magnificent, followed 
the figures of the quadrille, scarcely 
touching the ends of Victorine’s gloved 
fingers, without trying to meet her 
looks. In the intervals of the dance 
she received the homage of a young 
and brilliant Swedish diplomat. At 
eleven o'clock there was an interval of 
music. Mme. de lTsle, wishing doubt- 
lessly this evening to display-all Jeanne’s 
brilliancy, and thus enable her to revenge 
the past, conducted Jeanne to the piano, 


and playing the accompaniment herself, 
implored her to sing. Jeanne chose 
that most moving and pathetic of mod- 
ern inspirations, the “ Romance of 
Saul,” where Rossini’s genius has con- 
densed in a few notes so many sobs, 
so many tears. Jeanne had an excellent 
taste and touch, obtained from the best 
masters by hard study. She had also 
an exquisite feeling, and the gift of 
communicating her emotions to others. 
Then she was extremely beautiful while 
singing, which added the seduction of 
the eyes to that of the ears, and showed 
in her expressive countenance the 
sentiments with which the artist had 
penetrated her soul by these melo- 
dious sounds. Nervously excited, under- 
standing that she was now fighting a 
true battle, from which she must come 
out victorious, she surpassed herself. 
Neither Shakspeare nor Rossini could 
ever have dreamed of a more touching 
Desdemona. She had also a success that 
singers rarely obtain in the world where 
the usages of society freeze everything. 
She was applauded, overwhelmed by 
the general enthusiasm. But satisfied 
with having obtained the triumph, dis- 
daining to enjoy it, she furtively pressed 
Mme. de 1’ Isle’s hand, saying — 

“ You know I am like Cinderella, I 
must leave before twelve, under penalty 
of losing my slipper, and as there is no 
Prince Charmanfc to bring it back to 
me — Adieu, and many thanks ! I am 
going home.” 

“ Without your supper ?” 

“ Without supper !” 

“ Are you satisfied, now ?” 

“ And you ?” 

“Delighted.” 

“ I am also, then.” 

She disappeared whilst they still ap- 
plauded her. 

“ Thus, is all finished,” thought she 
as she sank back in the carriage. “ I 
love no more ! My heart is dead; fare- 
well to my youth !” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

I F this evening had shown Mile. Der- 
ville what she could do when she 
tried, it also exhibited to her the un- 
fathomable vacancy in her soul. This 
second stage seemed to her worse than 


156 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


the first, and slie said to herself it was 
better to suffer by love than to live 
without it. 

Jeanne for two years had been so 
occupied with the trying contest of 
life, that she had not had time to be 
unhappy. She nowTeviewed her whole 
past, coldly, calmly, and saw herself 
as she was. 

She could by her energy and perse- 
verance feel certain of her material 
existence. But this was not enough. 

Woman does not feed on bread alone, 
any more than man ; she has higher and 
nobler wants ; she needs affection, tender- 
ness and love. And Jeanne loved no 
one — and no one loved her — and still, 
her young blood boiled in her, and the 
vigor of her twenty years mounted to 
her brain, with its desires and troubles. 
She asked herself if such a slight result 
was worth so much trouble ; if she had 
done well. What would be left to her 
of all these parlor triumphs, of which 
she was often so proud? Where so many 
exertions would lead her, and of what 
use it was to march all the time, if the 
end was never to be reached? 

Her lessons could not be put off, and 
as she was expected at given hours in 
the four corners of Paris, to teach schol- 
ars, more or less bright, history, geogra- 
phy and rhetoric (for the young ladies 
learn rhetoric now-a-days, as well or bet- 
ter than ourselves), she was happily 
taken off from her own sad thoughts. 

She must besides always appear calm 
and smiling to her pupils. A teacher 
is a woman, she may have a heart and 
a soul ; she may have internal tempests, 
like the great lakes ; she may yield to 
the dominion of passion, provided there 
is no external sign. The young souls 
confided to her care, must not suspect 
such secret and terrible things. The 
storm may grumble within, but it must 
never thunder. 

Jeanne knew and did not forget all 
this. The life to which circumstances 
had condemned her seemed sweet to her 
while fulfilling its requirements. 

The day after the soiree at Mme. de 
Tlsle’s, she gave her usual lessons, and 
felt much better when she returned 
home in the evening. 

She had not taken off her hat and 
gloves when Constance knocked at the 
door. 


“ My dear little one,” said she, throw- 
ing her arms round Jeanne’s neck, u I 
must kiss you.” 

“ I wish nothing better,” said Jeanne, 
offering both cheeks. 

“ You are an accomplished creature, 
just perfect, and I am proud and happy 
of being your friend,” said she, in a 
dithyrambic tone. 

“ Ah ! dear madam, behold a declara- 
tion of facts that my modesty forces me 
to condemn as too flattering. Spare me, 
if you please.” 

“ It is only too true, nevertheless ; 
your conduct last evening was sublime. 
I admired you.” 

“ Then it seems I am simply sublime 
without any doubt of it.” 

“ This is the best solution ; but how 
did you keep so completely mistress of 
yourself? What power enabled you to 
control yourself so entirely ?” 

“ I do not deserve much praise for 
that. I have naturally a great deal of 
self-control.” 

“ I know that well. You have a 
heart of stone. But still before one 
you have loved, and whom perhaps you 
still love a little — ” 

Constance paused, as if afraid to say 
any more. 

Mile. Derville silently shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“ Thus it is well ended ; entirely 
ended,” continued Mme. de l’Isle. 

“ Entirely.” 

“ Be frank with me ; what did you 
feel when you met him last evening ?” 

“ A little pity, perhaps.” 

“ He did in truth cut a sad figure. 
And when you met the baron — ” 

“ Some scorn.” 

“ You are hard.” 

“ Only just. But let him alone ; he 
ought to be forgotten as among the in- 
valids in the hospital.” 

“ Naughty girl ! And what of Vic- 
torine ?” 

“ As for Yictorine, I saw her last 
evening; but she is no longer an ac- 
quaintance of mine. She has betrayed 
our friendship — the friendship which 
was for so long the most intense feeling 
of my life — and of hers. She has hu- 
miliated my poverty, that she was more 
conscious of than any one. She has 
made me feel cruelly the difference in 
our positions; she has used every en- 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


157 


deavor to win from me the man I loved, 
and who loved me. You will not re- 
quire me, I suppose, to throw my arms 
around her neck V ’ 

“ No — but what a revenge you have 
taken !” 

“ Do you think so ?” 

“ You have crushed her !” 

“ Barely grazed her. Ah ! if I had 
been really as cruel and unforgiving as 
many would have been in my place, I 
need only to have taken Maxence’s arm 
and led him in my suite across the sa- 
loon. A word, a look, a gesture, and 
again he would have been a slave at my 
feet, as he was formerly, and I would 
have condemned her to see the triumph 
I had achieved by the public devotion 
of her husband, who does not love her, 
and has never loved her.” 

“Yes, indeed ! you might have done 
all this ; and you refrained.” 

“ It is a moderation that deserves no 
praise. I have such a profound con- 
tempt for all that is only vanity.” 

“ And the baroness ?” 

“ She is Victorine’s mother — she is 
nothing to me.” 

“ Thus, my beautiful angel, all is set- 
tled up with these people ?” 

“ As if I had never known them,” 
replied Jeanne, in a clear, decided tone, 
that showed the truth of what she said. 

“ Well, darling, since this is the case 
— and with a woman like yourself there 
is no other course — you must now take 
a determined stand.” 

“ I ! And what stand do you wish 
me to take ?” 

“You must get married.” 

“ What ! My goodness ! To-day, or 
to-morrow? You will not let me have 
time to wear mourning.” 

“ Indeed I will, but on condition that 
you wear rose color. It is a very be- 
coming color to you.” 

“ A court mourning, it seems ! But 
whom do you wish me to marry ?” 

“ Three individuals.” 

“ All at once ? I think I should be 
hung for this. But how happy my poor 
Breton ne would be. She has passed Jier 
life burning tapers in all the chapels, 
that the Holy Virgin might grant that 
I should not be condemned to dress St. 
Catharine’s hair.” 

“You can reassure her from me, that 
the suitors will not be wanting. I am 


not in fun. Between ourselves, I know 
three of them.” 

“ Alas ! if of the three I can love only 
one — or two !” 

“ Be serious, little miss. You know 
that marriage is the most serious of all 
foolish things.” 

“ Or the most foolish of all serious 
things.” 

“ As you please ! But here is my 
list. I have not arranged them in the 
order of merit, but of the time of the 
application of candidates.” 

“ To the oldest ! then, as my poor 
father used to say.” 

“ Very well ! But of three candidates, 
there is always a choice.” 

“Yes — the lucky one.” 

“ Which he is, depends on yourself. 
But listen, you gabbler.” 

“ I am dumb.” 

“ First, there is M. de Roselene.” 

“ The Counsellor of State ?” 

“ Himself. He has a good name — a 
fine position.” 

“ And a good age !” 

“ Goodness ! only forty-eight ! no 
more.” 

“ You do not think that enough ? 
Well, then, add his nursing months !” 

“That does not count; besides, he is 
well preserved.” 

“ In vinegar — too sharp for me!” 

“Let us go on ; I see the Counsellor 
of State has not the least chance.” 

“ Very little, indeed.” 

“ I scratch him off.” 

“ Let us pass to number two.” 

“ You danced with number two last 
evening — it is little Paul Blenheim.” 

“ The son of. the stockbroker?” 

“Yes; he is young enough to suit 
you, I imagine.” 

“ Too young ! I would seem like his 
old woman !” 

“ Yes, perhaps, if you were not Jeanne 
Derville.” 

“ Paul Blenheim ? I should never 
have supposed he would have thought 
of such a thing,” 

“ I am not obliged to be as modest as 
yourself, and I confess I am not sur- 
prised that he should have noticed and 
appreciated you. He only proves he is 
a man of taste.” 

“ I believe, indeed, that he has many 
good tastes ,” replied Jeanne, with an 
accent on the plural of the last word — 


158 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


referring maliciously to certain well- 
known affairs in the young man’s life. 

“ Well, my beautiful darling, do you 
hope to marry at Nanterre ?” 

“Neither at Nanterre nor at Breda.” 

“ Youth will be youth — the worst 
youths make the best husbands.” 

“ It is a great risk.” 

“ Is not marriage always a lottery ?” 

“ Yes, there are only a few winning 
numbers. But, seriously, your M. Blen- 
heim has never courted me — and his 
declaration comes like a bomb-shell.” 

“ Last evening lighted the powder. 
You know, at any rate, he is rich.” 

“ Fortune of trade ! But a colonel’s 
daughter, who has only five hundred 
francs a year, ought not to be very par- 
ticular about the details.” 

“ Paul is a pretty young fellow.” 

“ I know his nioustache is irresistible. 
But do you not know a little story that 
M. de l’lsle revealed to me ?” 

“An indiscretion of my husband’s — 
no, I cannot conceive.” 

“ Well, then, your white blackbird is 
provided with — I believe this is what 
they call it — is provided with a ‘ judi- 
cial adviser/” 

“ This is only a circumstance — nearly 
all men have one.” 

“ So much the worse for them ; but I 
prefer that my husband shall have 
none.” 

“ Poor Paul ! The women have ruined 
him — a woman could save him.” 

“ Let us see number three,” said 
Jeanne, shaking her head. 

“ I wish to, but you are not very en- 
couraging.” 

“ I am sincere.” 

“ Well, then, my number three is M. 
Julien d’Avenay !” 

At this name, Jeanne looked at Mme. 
de l’lsle with bright, inquiring eyes. 

“ Is it. really true that M. Julien 
d’Avenay has asked me to marry him ?” 

“ Perfectly true, or I would not tell 
you !” 

“ Well, I am astonished.” 

“ It is only two hours since he was in 
my parlor, imploring me to solicit your 
hand for him.” 

“ He is not only a distinguished 
artist, but a very superior man.” 

“ I think of him as you do ) he is one 
of our most skilful sculptors. His place 
is tnarked in the Institute — ” 


“ Without counting the one he occu- 
pies so well in the boudoir of the Mar- 
quise Stranieri,” replied Jeanne, in an 
abrupt, sharp, cutting tone, which con- 
trasted strangely with her usual sweet- 
ness. 

This was enough to satisfy Mme. de 
de l’lsle that Jeanne was perfectly 
familiar with an adventure in M. Julien 
d’Avenay’s life which had made scandal 
enough in the world. 

“Ah, my poor little one! if you must 
marry some one who has never looked 
at any woman but yourself, I give it up. 
The species is very rare. You must 
order one made.” 

“ Do not be annoyed, dear friend,” 
replied Jeanne, with a sweet shade of 
melancholy. “ I am no longer a young 
girl ; I know what we can expect and 
ask of men j but after such a long and 
public liaison between the Marchioness 
and M. d’Avenay, think in what a situa- 
tion his wife would be placed. I know 
that it would worry me all the time if I 
was his wife.” 

“ What an exaggeration !” 

“No, I do not exaggerate! Under- 
stand what I mean : All the words of 
love he addressed to me I should think 
had been said to another — a woman I 
know ; I should probably meet her 
every evening in society, for your Italian 
is always in Paris ; and though every- 
thing should be broken off between them, 
and he should not go to her house, he 
certainly does not shun her. I under- 
stand he cannot shun her. He speaks 
to her. Listen then : I assure you I 
should feel less afraid of M. Paul Blen- 
heim’s hundred mistresses than of this 
only one of M. Julien d’Avenay !” 

“You might well be,” thought Mme. 
de l’lsle, who did not reply. 

“ When a person has given so much 
to one woman,” continued Jeanne, “there 
is nothing left to offer to another.” 

“ You see he has though, since Ju- 
lien wishes to marry.” 

“ He perhaps wishes to do so — but 
whether he can or ought is a different 
affair— he has a chain around his neck.” 

“ The chain is broken.” 

“ Is there not a place,” said Jeanne, 
pensively, “ is there not a place, some- 
where on the coast of Cayenne, where 
they transport the condemned, and where 
they still keep those whose time has not 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


159 


expired ? There ought to be one for love 
criminals — he ought not to be permitted 
to wander free in the society of honest 
defenceless women/’ 

“ Oh, Jeanne ! dear Jeanne ! what is 
the matter with you ? You are so cruel 
to-day/’ 

Jeanne continued, without replying : 
“ Do you not see how unjust our lot is ? 
A pure young girl has guarded herself 
as well as she was able ; she has watched 
over her heart — over her mind — over 
her slightest thought, to give herself to 
a man — and in exchange for this perfect 
gift of herself, this man gives her the 
remains of a life engrossed by another — 
what that other has left — what she did 
not want. And . you think all that 
right, dear madame ?” 

“ No ; I think it terrible ! But how 
can it be helped, my dear little one ? 
Life is life, and we caunot alter it. 
Later, when you have had more experi- 
ence, you will know that perfect justice 
does not exist in this world. Wise 
changes, reciprocal concessions, are im- 
peratively necessary in social existence, 
and we set at naught the essential con- 
ditions of our fate, by holding so obsti- 
nately to our rights.” 

“ This is possible, dear friend ; but 
you know how true I am — there are 
sacrifices beyond my strength, that I 
cannot make ! Pardon me, but do not 
ask nte to attempt them.” 

u Do you know what all this proves ?” 
said Constance, taking Jeanne’s hand, 
and drying a tear that ran down her burn- 
ing cheek. 

“ No, madame, I do not.” 

“ It proves that you are not as insen- 
sible to the. merits of M. d’Avenay as 
you desire to appear.” 

u Ah ! madam, if this is so, I assure 
you, I am not aware of it, and do not 
wish to be so. A man who is not free, 
ceases to be a man to me. You see 
perfectly well, that it is impossible for 
me to think of this one.” 

“ Is this your final determination ?” 

“ It is.” 

“ Well,” said Constance, rising, u di- 
plomacy is not my forte, my embassy 
is unsuccessful. I believe the only 
thing left for me to do, is to join your 
faithful Bretonne in lighting tapers on the 
altars of all the marrying saints. After 
all — is marriage a blessing ! One never 
11 


can tell. Farewell, naughty one, may 
you have all the blessings that I desire 
for you.” 

Madame de ITsle left, after kissing 
Jeanne on her wet eyes. 

“ They have vowed never to leave me 
at peace,” said Jeanne when she was 
alone. “ Cannot the world forget those by 
whom it is so easily forgotten ?” 

“ Mademoiselle, dinner is ready,” said 
the faithful Jacqueline. 

Jeanne sat down to her lonely dinner, 
and to the great despair of Jacqueline 
scarcely touched a morsel ; returning to 
her own room as soon as possible. 

“ Am I indeed wrong !” she asked 
herself earnestly. “ Is it possible Con- 
stance is right? Have I become foolish 
now, wishing for impossibilities, devoted 
to chimeras? Let it alone — it is a 
disease. I am passing a crisis — but it is 
more the fault of others than of myself. 
As soon as I commence to breathe 
freely, they hunt me as for pleasure. 
Every one is in league against my peace* 
Peace ! all I now desire.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

"XT OTWITHSTANDINGr her con- 
-i- 1 tinued and reiterated successes, 
Jeanne resolutely persevered in her life 
of toil, following the advice of Mme. de 
l’lsle, and devoting a greater portion of 
her time to artistic teaching. She 
hoped by this means to soon reach the 
height of her ambition. The rude trials 
she had experienced had improved her 
talents. Talent does not need happi- 
ness — it often thrives best in adversity. 

Mile. Derville would not meet M. de 
Bois-Robert again, as the family De 
Blanchelaude always left Paris at a cer- 
tain time for Sologne, and that time 
had now arrived. The baron, who was. 
too old to enjoy the country, usually 
remained in Paris. He had a double 
motive for his sojourn at present. When 
his family had gone, he left his grand 
apartments in the Rue de Grammont, 
and took rooms in a little hotel near 
Jeanne’s house. He soon, by means of 
the irresistible argument of silver, be- 
came perfectly au fait as to all Jeanne’s 
movements. He knew her hours for 
leaving and returning home, where her 
scholars lived, and the time and length 


160 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


of the various lessons. Armed with 
this precious intelligence, he commenced 
a formidable campaign against her. 
Jeanne could go nowhere without being 
certain of meeting him. If she went 
on foot he followed at a pretended re- 
spectful distance, without positively 
compromising her. She could see how 
engrossed he was with her manners and 
actions. The baron also knew the par- 
ticular stages she must take, and waited 
at the different offices, grumbling if she 
was late, getting in sometimes first, so 
that he was at home when she arrived. 

Jeanne could not understand all this, 
and treated him with contemptuous 
scorn. Her aversion to him was so 
great that she would not have the 
slightest communication with him ) for 
all was at an end between them for ever ! 

Once or twice, early in the morning, 
or late in the evening, he had tried to 
;speak to her, but Jeanne’s flashing look 
prevented him from renewing the at- 
tempt. He hoped that correspondence 
would succeed better. Some men write 
better than they talk, and are naturally 
tempted to misuse the epistolary lan- 
guages — M. de Blanchelande composed, 
therefore, a most voluminous epistle, 
which was eloquent because it came 
from the heart. He found words that 
.might have moved Jeanne’s heart if she 
had read them, but she did not read 
them. He spoke to her of his soul, but 
•she did not listen — he related the inju- 
ries he had done her, he tried to find 
.an excuse for them in his unconquerable 
.passion, foolish doubtlessly, but that she 
■must pardon on account of its great 
strength — he still loved Mile. Derville, 
■but now only as he should love her — 
with parental affection. He ended by 
imploring her, that as she had been his 
■daughter’s best friend, she would grant 
him one last interview — that he might 
hear one merciful word from her, telling 
him she would forget the past. 

This was all he could now hope for-: 
he would then rid her for ever of his 
importunate presence. The baron read 
his epistle, thought it so fine that it 
■would be impossible for Jeanne to re- 
main any longer so implacable 

He carried the little piece of eloquence 
himself to the young girl’s house — fear- 
ing, as lovers are so disposed to do, that 
their letters confided to other hands, will 
not reach their destination. 


Mile. Derville received very few let- 
ters ; usually a few lines from a pupil 
about the lesson-hour. The light paper 
was scarcely perceived under the enve- 
lope. The baron’s long phrases had 
more volume and weight. Jeanne re- 
cognised the well-known handwriting of 
the baron that she had so often seen on 
Victorine’s letters, before breaking the 
seal. 

11 Ah 1” said she, frowning, “ how 
daring he becomes- — he needs a lesson. 
Well, he shall have one.” 

After making this resolve, she put 
the letter in her pocket, waiting an op- 
portunity to return it to its author. 
She had not long to wait. 

The next mornings M. de Blanche- 
lande, calculating on his fine writing, 
was accidentally on Jeanne’s path, near 
the solitary heights of the Luxembourg. 
As soon as he saw her, he looked inquir- 
ingly at her, and hastening his steps, 
soon shortened the distance between 
them. 

“Is it possible he intends speaking to 
me here, in the public street?” thought 
Mile. Derville. And to prevent this 
great piece of audacity, looking round 
to see that she was unobserved, she 
threw the letter at the baron’s feet, 
without even looking at him. 

“ Ah ! this is too bad !” murmured 
M. de Blanchelande, picking up pite- 
ously his unfortunate production. But 
anger and indignation soon brought back 
his energy, and looking after Jeanne, 
who did not even turn her head, 

“I will revenge myself!” said he, 
with a threatening gesture. 

Satisfied with this execution, cruel 
at least in form, but which did not seem 
too severe for her fierce indignation, 
Jeanne continued her walk as perfectly 
indifferent to the person she had just 
made her mortal enemy, as if he no 
longer existed. “ He must be singularly 
obstinate if this does not relieve me from 
him entirely.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A LL the circumstances seemed to 
give good grounds for the young 
girl’s hopes. A month passed by, and 
she heard nothing of the baron. Dur- 
ing this month several things took place, 
which had great influence upon the des- 
tiny of our heroine. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEUION OF HONOR. 


161 


One evening, as she sat quietly play- 
ing the piano, after dinner, her bell 
rang violently. 

Jacqueline, who was just going out, 
opened the door for the stranger who 
seemed in such haste. 

“ 1 have a message for Mile. Derville 
from one of her scholars.” 

il Enter, sir, if you please. I will tell 
mademoiselle.” While speaking she 
showed the stranger into the dining- 
room, which Jeanne used as an ante- 
room to her parlor. She then went to 
tell her young mistress. 

“Ask him to enter,” said Mile. Der- 
ville, closing the piano. 

Jeanne had not finished speaking 
when the baron stood before her. The 
baron had thought Mile. Derville would 
decline to see him, so he had followed 
close on the servant’s footsteps. 

Jeanne saw by a glance that the 
baron was intensely excited. His face 
was flushed, his eyes shone with fierce 
brilliancy, and his hands trembled. He 
steadied himself on his feet, for Jeanne 
did not offer him a seat, and tried to 
recover the audacity which his dinner 
bibations had given him. The fresh air 
and Jeanne’s presence brought him back 
to the reality of things, which did not 
suit his purpose. 

Mile. Derville stood before him drawn 
up to her greatest height, cold, im- 
movable, haughty, with questioning looks, 
pointing to the door with her raised 
hand, as if ordering him to leave with- 
out entering. 

M. de Blanchelande seemed not to 
understand her movement. He looked 
all around the saloon, examining every 
corner, like a man who wished to shel- 
ter himself in case of an attack. This 
movement did not indicate an intention 
as if he intended to obey Mile. Derville’s 
mute command. 

Astonishment, indignation, and anger 
had at first choked the words in the 
young; girl’s throat. She soon recovered 
her presence of nnnd. 

“ Leave at once, sir,” said she. 

In place of leaving, M. de Blanche- 
lande advanced towards her. 

Jeanne instinctively drew away in fear. 

The baron’s face was certainly not re- 
assuring, and before this he had never 
been so impertinent to Mile. Derville. 

Her sudden movement placed Jeanne 


against the fireplace. She held out her 
hand to ring the bell, but before she 
could do so her arm was seized in an 
iron grasp, and in a rough voice which 
did not belong to a man of his rank, 
manners, or usual habits, M. de Blanche- 
lande said, “ No, I do not wish you to 
ring. I do not wish it — and you shall 
not ring.” 

“ Then go !” replied Jeanne, who hid 
her great tears under an assumed indif- 
ference. 

“ That was well done !” said the ba- 
ron, placing himself between Jeanne 
and the bell. “ That was a command to 
go, that Mile. Rachel might have en- 
vied you. Unhappily, it was not before 
the public. It is not the time for so 
much tragedy. We play here only a 
little comedy — and still for my benefit.” 

Jeanne crossed her arms over her 
breast, as if to still the beating of her 
heart, and with stern lips and frowning 
brow, she tried the magnetic effect of 
looking the baron directly in the eyes. 

“ Oh ! no ! no ! no charming me,” 
said M. de Blanchelande, lowering his 
head as if he feared the too powerful 
influence. “ See how many years I have 
suffered on your account. It has been 
too long! Here is an end to all that! 
I will not suffer any longer ! I love you, 
and you have treated my love only with 
scorn and contempt. I have implored 
you, and you laughed at me. The roles 
are now changed; it is your turn to en- 
treat ! It is now your turn to weep.” 

“ I only weep for those I love,” re- 
plied Mile. Derville, with haughty dig- 
nity. u And you, Monsieur le Baron, 
might sooner draw every drop of blood, 
than one of my tears, for I do not love 
you.” 

“ This suits me exactly,” continued 
the baron; “ this last burst of pride ; this 
courageous contest. I would love you 
less if you did not resist me. I am so 
certain, besides, of conquering you. But 
acknowledge that for a spirited young 
girl you have been very foolish. You 
could have had me for a tender, devoted 
adoring friend — a devoted lover, and for 
my only recompense, I asked to be allowed 
to serve, to protect, to save you.” 

“ And to destroy me !” replied Jean- 
ne, in a tone of fierce indignation. 

“ I wished to be thy father.” 

“ You ! my father !” 


162 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ A woman never would have had 
more devoted care. Your pleasure would 
have been the study of my life. You 
would have wished for nothing. Your 
secret wishes would have been gratified. 
And what did I desire in return ? No- 
thing ! I only asked to be allowed to love 
you/’ 

“This nothing, as you term it, was 
everything for me.” 

“ And you, ungrateful creature, wicked, 
hard-hearted soul, not content with re- 
fusing me, you have weighed me down 
with your hatred. This is still not all. 
I might have pardoned your hatred, but 
you have added your scorn at that ball. 
You remember that ball. You humi- 
liated me before my son-in-law. My 
rival ! my preferred rival ! and triumph- 
ed over us both at the same time. Since 
then and notwithstanding your unworthy 
behavior, I have done everything I could 
to re-establish myself in your good graces. 
All has been useless. Your insolence has 
increased with the humility of my love. 

“ The other evening, when I had 
reached the end of my resources, I sent 
you a letter breathing the despair of my 
heart, which you did not even condescend 
to read, and threw in my face in the 
public street. Do you know that be- 
tween men such an insult would cause 
death ? 

“ 1 have chosen a sweeter vengeance,” 
said he, approaching her with that 
stealthy cat-like movement, which ren- 
ders the attacks of the feline race so 
dangerous. 

Jeanne saw her danger, and shud- 
dered when she remembered Jacqueline 
was out, and she was entirely alone with 
this miserable man. The baron, whom 
she had always considered so agreeable, 
and who had always treated women so 
courteously, no matter what were his 
real wishes, always allowed them the 
privilege of refusing his attentions — the 
baron, now half intoxicated and under 
the influence of this wild passion, yielded 
only to those instincts which degrade 
man lower than the brute. 

Around Jeanne there was such an 
atmosphere of purity and feminine dig- 
nity, that no one had ever forgotten the 
respect that was her due. She had never 
before seen such a danger ; all her delicate 
womanly instincts were alarmed. She 
shuddered, and the cold dampness came 


on her forehead and dimmed her eyes, 
that now saw no more. This faintness 
lasted a few moments, but her natural 
courage soon returned ; she reproached 
herself for calumniating M. de Blanche- 
lande in a moment of foolish terror. There 
was a great distance between a culpable 
desire and its accomplishment. He had 
doubtlessly desired to frighten her, and 
having done so he would now leave. 

All these mixed passions fermenting 
in the weak soul of the baron and his 
long surpressed desires, exploded sudden- 
ly in a terrible manner. The sight of 
Jeanne near him, beautiful and terrified, 
increased his passion. He found her a 
hundred times more fascinating in her 
paleness, anger and terror. His passions 
always strong, were now in such a state 
as to be controlled only by his will, and 
his will betrayed him at this moment, 
like every thing else. Reason no longer 
acted for him, he was under the domin- 
ion of his nerves and senses. , 

He advanced still nearer Jeanne. 

“ Jacqueline ! come to me, Jacque- 
line 1” said Jeanne in a voice rendered 
shrill by her despair. 

“ I tell you she shall not come V* 
repeated Monsieur de Blanchelande ; 
“ no one in the world shall come between 
you and me.” 

“ Only God'!” murmured Jeanne, 
looking up to heaven, as if to call for 
its aid and show her reliance. 

“ God is like thy Bretonne,” mur- 
mured the baron, laughing; “He has 
gone away — He does not hear thee !” 

One might have said he was like an 
executioner, and prolonged Jeanne’s 
agony so as to enjoy her beauty and 
fright. 

“ Oh, you are not my master yet,” 
said Jeanne with a wild look. “ Death 
always stands between us, and the road is 
open for any one who dares to enter.” 

Whilst pronouncing these words with 
exaltation, Mile. Derville darted to the 
window. The baron, who had not taken 
his eyes off of her face, understood her 
intention. He rushed towards her and 
dared to seize her in his arms. At 
this odious embrace, the first she had 
ever received, Jeanne felt horror- 
stricken, and with strength lent her by 
her indignation, she disengaged herself 
from de Blanchelande and pushed him 
into the middle of the room. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


163 


li Miserable coward ! leave me at 
once !” said she, with flashing eyes. 

“No! I will not leave thee ! I wish 
— it must be” — 

Whilst speaking, the baron returned 
to the young girl. Jeanne thought all 
was over for her; she implored G-od’s 
help from the depths of her soul ; and 
wild, desperate — not knowing what she 
did — she fell on her knees. 

At the instant he intended to devour 
his prey, a powerful hand seized his 
shoulder and threw him violently away. 
The shock was so sudden that the baron 
went down on his knees, but he got up 
very quickly. 

“ I am not afraid of two of you !” 
said he, turning around. 

But, instead of seeing Jeanne’s ser- 
vant, whom he expected, the only person 
whose interference he dreaded, he found 
in front of him a tall, strong-looking, 
energetic, determined man. 

The baron, on seeing this new adver- 
sary, understood how hopeless was his 
position. This feeling brought him to 
himself, and showed him the enormity 
of his crime. He wished himself a hun- 
dred miles from the Rue de Clichy. He 
tried to find a way of retreat, but he 
could not easily disembarrass himself 
from the terrible position in which he 
was found. 

“ Kneel down ! you wretch ! and ask 
forgiveness,” said, in a stern voice, the 
unknown champion that Providence had 
sent in Mile. Derville’s defence; “ask 
mademoiselle’s forgiveness, or I will 
strangle you at her feet.” 

The Baron de Blanchelande was no 
coward, though his adversary had all 
the advantages of youth and strength. 
After all, a man is only a man, and one 
can always make an honorable retreat. 
He recovered from his surprise and ex- 
amined his conqueror attentively. He 
saw he had a fine carriage, a moustache, 
military buttons, and a red ribbon fas- 
tened in his coat; he understood that 
this affair was with an officer — a guar- 
antee in itself. 

“ Sir,” said he to the stranger, with 
'great haughtiness, “ we belong to the 
same society, I believe. We will meet 
again elsewhere, and I hope you will 
give me the reasons for this sudden in- 
convenient interruption of a domestic 
quarrel.” 


“ A domestic quarrel !” said Jeanne, 
interrupting, with pale face, flashing 
eyes, and quivering lips. “ Ah ! sir, 
you add calumny to violence, and insult- 
ing language to insulting actions — two 
cowardices for one!” 

“Do not waste your words on him, 
mademoiselle,” said the unknown one, 
addressing Jeanne with every token of 
respect; “ one does not answer such ras- 
cals. As for you, sir, who dare to ask 
a reparation from me, never let me see 
your face again. I shall not always be 
restrained by mademoiselle’s presence, 
and I will make you pay dearly for your 
outrageous conduct of to-day.” 

The stranger pointed to the door. 

The baron could not endure to be hu- 
miliated before Jeanne, after his unsuc- 
cessful contest, and kept a determined 
resistance. 

This obstinacy caused his adversary 
to lose all the patience he possessed ; 
he seized the unfortunate man, dragged 
him to the staircase, and said in a 
haughty tone : 

“ M. de Blanchelande, I know you, 
and I despise you, for you have dis- 
honored by this infamous action your 
title of nobleman. But, be warned ! 1 
watch over this young girl, and you will 
always find me between you ! Out of 
respect for your name, I will not drag 
you before the public tribunal, which is 
all you now deserve, for no gentleman 
can communicate with you ; but on my 
word of honor, if you ever again annoy 
Mile. Derville in the slightest degree, I 
will kill you like a dog. Do you hear 
me ? Now go !” 

Wild with sorrow, but hiding his rage 
and cursing his impotency, de Blanche- 
lande went away, whilst Jeanne’s impetu- 
ous avenger, calm and tranquil, returned 
to the saloon. 

Jeanne, pale and trembling, realizing 
the horrible danger that she had escaped, 
had fallen back on her seat, faint with 
her emotions, but adorably beautiful. 

Thus her deliverer found her when 
he returned. 

“ Oh ! my friend, how can I thank 
you?” said she, holding out her two 
hands to the young man. 

“Do not thank me, and forget this 
sad scene, which will be so painful for 
you to remember. Forget this man — 
forget everything but ourselves, my be- 


164 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


loved Jeanne !” said he, taking a seat 
near the young girl. 

Whilst Mile. Derville recovers from 
her very excusable emotion, we will in- 
troduce to the reader this stranger, 
whose unexpected interference came so 
fortunately to her aid. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

H IS name is Pierre Yerteins. Mon- 
sieur de Verteins (a gentleman 
Jeanne had been introduced to at the 
house of one of her favorite pupils) 
was thirty or thirty-five years of age — a 
military looking person — his cold, digni- 
fied attitude gave him an air of com- 
mand. Naturally grave, he seemed 
colder to casual acquaintances — but the 
sternness of his looks was softened by 
the sweetness of his smile ; which, 
when it came, seemed to lighten up his 
face with affectionate and tender good- 
ness. 

A very near relation of Mme. de 
Fresnelles*, where Jeanne had first met 
him ; connected, through her, with the 
most noble families, in whose houses he 
was received on intimate terms, Mon- 
sieur de Yerteins, in a century in 
which the public must know everything, 
led a mysterious existence, which fright- 
ens some women and attracts others, 
but interests all. Men he kept syste- 
matically at a distance. 

Entering the army as a volunteer, he 
served with great distinction in Africa, 
gaining two epaulettes and an end of 
ribbon. Still young on his return, he 
threw up his commission, and for ten 
years wandered in far-off countries, ec- 
centric, unknown, away from the very 
necessary but galling restraints of the 
civilized walks of life. He never spoke 
of his adventures, as travellers gene- 
rally do, who have gone from the pole to 
the equator apparently with that one ob- 
ject. He was impenetrably reserved — 
never had he been known to pronounce 
the name of a woman — yet his friends 
who knew him best, connoisseurs who 
are not often deceived in such matters, 
recognised in him the signs of strong, 
deep, almost fatal passions. 

Perhaps by searching well, some vio- 
lent and . sorrowful drama might be found 
in a corner of his existence — but no 


matter what they suspected, no one 
knew. They conjectured — women still 
more than men — women do love to conjec- 
ture. Even Jeanne, this serious beauty, 
had felt an interest in M. de Yerteins 
which amazed herself, for she had met 
him very rarely, and only in this one 
house. 

Mile. Leonie de Fresnelles loved her 
instructress very much, and Jeanne re- 
turned her affection — notwithstanding 
the thousand things that occupy the 
time of a fashionable young lady, she 
was always punctual — this is a politeness 
the rich owe to the poor. Jeanne, whose 
whole time was engaged, arrived with 
the punctuality of a chronometer. 

Leonie would say, “ Here is Mile. 
Derville,” when she heard the bell; “ it 
is useless to look at the clock, it is a 
quarter to eleven.” The books and 
papers were ready, and Mme. de Fres- 
nelles nearly always welcomed her. 

Once, however, Jeanne was delayed 
by indisposition, and Leonie by the 
attractions of some shops, where they 
tempt the buyer and his purse. 

Mile. Derville was ushered into a 
small saloon. She knew she was late, 
and would most probably have to wait a 
while; so believing herself alone, she 
took off her hat, arranged her hair in 
the glass, and walked to the piano, 
where she began to sing. Raising her 
head accidentally, she saw M. de Yer- 
teins half hid in the window-recess. 

Jeanne had dined with him once or 
twice. Mme. de Fresnelles, who under- 
stood and appreciated Mile. Derville, 
had introduced her to her cousin M. de 
Verteins, as a friend of the family, as 
well as her daughter’s instructress. So 
they were not entire strangers to each 
other. 

Jeanne blushed when she saw him, as 
any young girl would have done in her 
place. 

Monsieur de Yerteins advanced smil- 
ing “ Will you pardon my indiscre- 
tion, or rather my discretion ?” said he. 
u I thought you did not see me, and I 
did not wish to interfere with your work. 
Stolen moments are sweeter than any 
other. They did not expect you so 
soon, and they shut me up to wait here 
for my cousin.” 

“Then we will wait together,” re- 
plied Jeanne, who instantly recovered 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


165 


her presence of mind. No ! I am wrong 
— I owe twenty-five minutes already.” 

“ That I am allowed to pay for you — 
am I not?” 

“Where is Mile. Leonie?” said 
Jeanne, without any more direct reply. 

“ The .ladies have gone to buy some 
dresses — an important matter.” 

“Very important matter, indeed,” 
replied Jeanne, in a lively tone; “the 
choice of a tissue, of the cut, of a shade, 
of the trimming. You laugh, sir ! but 
it is the half of one’s existence, and 
often the best.” 

“ Not for you, at least,” replied M. 
de Yerteins, looking at Jeanne’s quiet 
dress, for as Mile. Derville wished to 
pass unnoticed, there was not the least 
ornament about it. Nothing could be 
more simple than her stuff-dress, with 
white linen collar and sleeves. “ Not 
for you,” continued he, “for I have 
never seen you in anything but black 
or gray.” 

“ Oh, as for me,” said Jeanne, shrug- 
ging her shoulders; “ I do not count — 
I am not a woman 1” 

“ Then you are a very good dissem- 
bler, for I swear you have the air of 
one.” 

“ I dress myself — I clothe myself — 
this is all I can do. I leave the grand 
toilets to your great ladies — it is their 
only occupation.” 

“ This is a fact. Their heads are 
more empty than their hearts. You do 
not envy them, I imagine ?” 

“ Neither envy nor pity them. There 
are some, like Mine, de Fresnelles, show- 
ing themselves worthy of their good for- 
tune by using it well. There are others 
who forget that all intelligent life ought 
to have a great, noble, serious end. 
They do not understand this — it is not 
their fault. They think too much of 
themselves, of their dress; but, sir, 
what would you have ? Beautiful al- 
ready, they desire to render themselves 
still more beautiful ; for they feel beauty 
is their destiny, and they must be the 
admiration and pride of tbeir world. 
Each one has their appointed lot. We 
must accept it without complaint, which 
is useless and in bad taste.” 

M. de Yerteins was pleased that Mile. 
Derville did not fall into the net he 
spread for her, and abuse those more 
fortunate in rank and estate. 


“You said all that with a justice I 
admire,” said he, looking at Mile. Der- 
ville. 

“ I think I am right, and I speak as 
I feel.” 

“ I will not praise you, as you flee from 
that as others do from blame, but I know 
my own ideas on the good reasoning of 
this little head; and I will proclaim 
aloud — when you are not near — the great 
wisdom of a young philosopher of twenty 
years, called Mile. Jeanne, if I am not 
mistaken.” 

“Jeanne Derville, at your service! 
this is the name to which the young 
philosopher responds.” 

“Jeanne Derville!” replied M. de 
Yerteins, with great vivacity. “ Was 
your father an officer?” 

“ Yes, sir, Colonel of the 41st of the 
line,” replied Jeanne, with a feeling of 
filial pride — the most innocent and 
lawful of all prides. “ But how did you 
know ? Is it possible you knew my 
father?” And with an irresistible im- 
pulse, she went up to M. de Yerteins. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” said she, hardly 
able to restrain her teftrs; “ pardon me 
for an emotion of surprise and trouble. 
It is fifteen years, sir, since I lost my 
father ! I adored him, and no one ever 
speaks to me about him now. Where 
did you know him ?” 

“ In Africa, mademoiselle ; my father 
was his general, and I have often sat on 
his knee.” 

Jeanne listened eagerly, her heart in 
her eyes, and such a radiant expression 
of happiness in her face that had not 
been there for many a long day. 

“ I was then too young to understand 
the noble qualities that caused all to 
render him homage ; but I have often 
heard my father speak of Col. Derville 
in terms of the highest praise.” 

“ Oh ! how glad I am,” said Jeanne, 
with a charmingly frank expression. 
M. de Yerteins, encouraged by the sight 
of this almost heavenly joy, continued 
to speak of the eolonel with warmth 
and enthusiasm. He told her how 
much the colonel was esteemed by the 
officers, respected by the soldiers, loved 
by every one. 

“ Oh, sir, if you only knew how happy 
you have made me !” murmured Jeanne, 
trying to hide her tears, which would run 
down her cheeks. “My poor father ! lie 


166 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


deserved so much happiness, and he en- 
joyed so little! After being married 
for a few years, he saw my mother die 
in the bloom of her youth and beauty — 
my mother, full of love, whom he adored. 
He endured life after this only for me. 
I alone tied him to this world, and he 
died heart-broken at the idea of leaving 
me an orphan, without relations, friends 
or fortune, exposed to all the misfortunes 
of destiny. I did not then understand 
the deep, bitter anguish of his soul. Oh ! 
that tender heart — now, understanding 
life and its trials, I can fully appreciate 
his anxiety.” 

These noble feelings made a singular 
impression on M. de Yerteins. The man 
of the world, usually so cold, reserved, 
sceptical, scornful, now yielded to the 
man of nature, nobly born, good, enthu- 
siastic, capable of the best resolutions. 
They brought out the interior man, 
which adverse circumstances had choked 
in him, but which was revived by her 
look of lively interest. 

M. de Yerteins felt the change. 
Jeanne felt a true and lively gratitude 
for the man who thus spoke of her 
father, who stirred in the depths of her 
being the only feeling that had never 
deceived her, and that had so often 
brought her calmness and consolation. 

Leonie came in. 

“ Oh, my dear friend ! just think, M. 
de Yerteins kn.ew my father l” said 
Jeanne, advancing to meet her. 

“ So much the better,” replied the 
young girl ; “ that will help to secure 
my pardon for being so late — you must 
not scold me.” 

“No, because you are usually so punc- 
tual ; and besides, yours is the last lesson 
I am obliged to give to-day. But we 
must work hard to make up for lost 
time.” 

M. de Yerteins left the young ladies, 
and the lessons commenced. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

J EANNE knew her duty too well, not 
to repress all her emotions during 
the lesson, and was perfectly calm the 
moment she touched the books. Mine, 
de Fresnelles entered just as the teacher 
was leaving. 

“ Mile. Derville, it seems we are 


friends. M. de Yerteins talked a great 
deal yesterday about Col. Derville, with- 
out being certain he was your father. 
He will doubtlessly be very glad to talk 
to his daughter. Will you take din- 
ner with us to-day, without any cere- 
mony?” 

Jeanne had no reason for refusing the 
invitation, so she accepted with pleasure. 
It was a charming dinner ) M. de Yer- 
teins throwing out his amusing, novel, 
bright ideas — Leonie as agreeable as 
possible — and Mme. de Fresnelles had 
never been more charming. M. de 
Yerteins did not show Jeanne any par- 
ticular attention by word or look, but 
he brought a life and animation into the 
conversation with which he was per- 
mitted to honor Jeanne. The colonel’s 
daughter, for her part, felt much drawn 
towards him. 

This vague feeliDg, that she could 
neither define nor explain, did not re- 
semble in the least what she had for- 
merly experienced for Maxence de Bois- 
Robert, in the first opening of her heart. 
What she now felt was more calm, deep 
and serious — besides, thoughts of her 
father, mingling with this growing sym- 
pathy, justified her feelings — she seemed 
free from danger, protected and sancti- 
fied by bis august and dear spirit. 

After dinner, the chit-chat was pro- 
longed over the coffee, and Jeanne for- 
got the time, until an indiscreet clock 
sounded the hour, and recalled her to 
the realities of life. 

“ Oh !” said she, “ can it be nine 
o’clock ? I am very naughty — my poor 
Jacqueline will scold me for not keeping 
my word. I must go at once.” 

“ Have your servants arrived ?” said 
M. de Yerteins, laughing. “Shall I 
order them to come up ?” 

“ I have a coachman and a valet, or 
rather a footman !” replied Jeanne, 
laughing. 11 As for my equipage, it is 
admirable, and changes horses four or 
five times a day — only it will not, for 
some reason, come for me — I have to go 
wait where it passes at the end of the 
street.” 

“ Then I guess it is not a clarence, 
nor a brougham, nor a caleche, nor a 
briska, nor a coupe.” 

“ Oh, no, sir ! nothing resembling 
any of fhese ; it is — an omnibus.” 

u If you will allow, mademoiselle, we 
will go with each other.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE 

Jeanne looked at Mme. de Fresnelles, 
who motioned her to accept. 

Jeanne was much pleased with the 
prospect of this escort ; she put on her 
bonnet, kissed Leonie, bade farewell to 
Mme. de Fresnelles, and turning to M. 
de Verteins, said: “If you like, sir.” 

As they went out, Pierre offered her 
his arm, which she refused ; and as he 
seemed slightly surprised, she said, “ I 
am so accustomed to walking alone, it 
seems natural to me. I beg your par- 
don.” 

He did not insist. 

“ Oh !” said Jeanne, suddenly hurry- 
ing her steps ; “ there comes my car- 
riage.” 

She signalled to the omnibus to stop ; 
M. de Verteins called, but they did not 
hear. 

“ It must be full — it is very hard to 
find a seat at this hour. What will you 
do ?” 

“ I do not know,” said she, looking all 
around in hopes of finding a cab. “ Car- 
riages are only to be found in Paris 
when you do not need them.” 

“ The next omnibus passes in five 
minutes — will you wait ?” and seeing a 
shadow on his companion’s face : “ Is 
the office far away ?” said he. 

“ Far enough.” 

“Well, what shall we do ? I am at 
your orders — if we walk towards the 
omnibus, we will meet one before long. 
What do you say ?” 

“ I believe you are right.” 

Pierre offered his arm ; which, this 
time, she did not refuse. They walked 
without speaking; for she seemed em- 
barrassed, and he respected her feelings. 

The omnibus appeared — Jeanne was 
both glad and sorry, but she hid the 
last emotion very carefully. 

“ Adieu, mademoiselle,” said the 
young man rather sadly; “the happi- 
ness of some makes the misfortunes of 
others. I have still a long walk.” 

The omnibus stopped, but while they 
were saying farewell, a woman jumped 
in and took the only place. The con- 
ductor snapped his whip, the two Per- 
cherons started. 

“ It is no one’s fault,” said Jeanne, 
taking her mishap gaily; “ they are all 
full ! How I pity you !” 

“ W e will go along.” 

They stopped on the bridge of the 


LEGION OF HONOR. 167 

Tuilleries to admire the night and the 
immense city. 

M. de Verteins seeing an omnibus 
approaching, did not dare to risk a third 
happy chance, so he asked Jeanne if she 
was a good walker ? 

“ I walk a great deal.” 

“ Then you could walk home from 
here.” 

“ I believe I am capable of the great 
effort.” 

“ Well, we will go on foot, like two 
humble citizens. This little walk will 
do me good — I have a headache from 
working all day.” 

“ Ah, do you also work ?” asked 
Jeanne, in a tone of affectionate interest, 
drawing near to M. Verteins by an in- 
voluntary but charming instinct. 

“ Certainly I work, and a great deal, 
too.” 

“ For your own pleasure, then ?” 

“ That means — let us understand each 
other — that it pleases me to work ; but 
I am obliged to work — I do not deny 
that.” 

“ So much the better,” said J eanne, 
with a spontaneous feeling she could not 
restrain. 

“ And why so much the better ?” said 
Pierre, stopping to look attentively at 
the young girl. 

“ Oh,” replied Jeanne, slightly con- 
fused, “because work is a good thing. 
At the commencement it seems rather 
hard, but you soon get used to it, and 
end by loving it.” 

“You ought to know, for you are 
busy all the time, I believe.” 

“ As busy as the days are long, and 
in winter much more so. I give my 
first lesson at eight o’clock; and as it is 
far away, I am obliged to leave at 
seven.” 

“ Before daylight ?” 

“That depends on the seasons.” 

“ Poor girl !” 

“ Nonsense ! it is so arranged ! I do 
not complain. I know the streets of 
Paris so well — I might ask for the 
situation of inspector of streets and 
public monuments from the Prefect of 
the Seine.” 

“Who would hasten to refuse you.” 

“ Naturally ; so I will not ask for it.” 

They both laughed a good, hearty, 
natural laugh. 

“ And are your evenings disengaged ?” 


168 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ Oh ! not all. I should be very 
happy if they were ; but no — I give one 
or two lessons after dinner, sometimes — 
we cannot refuse the ladies.” 

“ But do you earn much by this hard 

life r 

“ Enough for one who is not very 
exacting. With perseverance and good 
luck, in seven or eight years I may 
amass enough to keep me from dying of 
hunger.” 

“And you do not complain ; you do 
not recriminate ; you do not accuse your 
life ; you da not abuse your destiny, as 
so many others would in your place. 
You live tranquil, serene, almost happy.” 

“The reason is, I am somewhat of a 
philosopher. When I feel like com- 
plaining— for I have my sad quarters of 
an hour — I look below me and I murmur 
no more. I remember the past, and I 
bless the present. Yes, indeed, I have 
endured many trials, but they have 
taught me to know and appreciate what 
is generous in human nature. I have 
seen few days pass without feeling grate- 
ful to some one. Behold ! you have just 
told me I am good. I do not deserve 
any praise for that, as I have no right 
to be wicked.” 

“ Mademoiselle,” said M. de Yerteins, 
with a remarkably sincere tone, “ flat- 
tery is not in my line — it is a long time 
since I have paid a compliment to any 
lady — but allow me simply to state how 
much I admire you.” 

“•To all my other good qualities for 
which you give me credit, please add a 
little modesty,” said Jeanne, “and then 
you will not dare to say such things to 
my face.” 

“You are right to forbid my speaking 
— for I feel that I am far beneath my 
subject.” 

“ Behold ! that will dispense with any 
fresh ones,” said Mile. Derville, showing 
him the door. “ We are at our desti- 
nation. Adieu, and thanks.” 

M. de Yerteins pressed Jeanne’s arm 
lightly with his hand as he relinquished 
it. 

“ Am I forbidden from taking this 
address?” said he, looking at the number 
of the house. 

“ It is not forbidden, but it is useless. 
I do not receive any one. No man has 
ever crossed the threshold of my door. 


It is my positive order, and I make no 
exceptions.” 

“ Do you also forbid me from assisting 
sometimes at Leonie’s lessons ?” 

“ That might perhaps be cruel. I 
do not know what interest you may have 
in your sweet cousin.” 

“ Ah ! all daughters of Eve,” mur- 
mured Pierre, as he withdrew. “ The 
best of them has always a taste of the 
milk of the first mother. You are co- 
quettes even when there is no serpent.” 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

M DE YERTEINS would not have 
• made this reflection if he could 
have read Mile. Derville’s thoughts, and 
the impression he had made on her 
beautiful soul — so young, so correct, so 
sincere. 

Jeanne felt he was one of the most 
distinguished men she had ever met; 
she felt the charm of his manner, his 
simple, courteous, unaffected politeness, 
his reserve, which, at first hid, soon 
yielded and displayed the depths of a 
passionate nature, well capable of capti- 
vating a soul. 

Jeanne’s was captured before she was 
aware of the fact. The feeling was 
strong and quiet; since her unhappy ad- 
venture with Maxence de Bois-Robert, 
the men against whom she then armed 
herself seemed completely indifferent to 
her. She was delighted with this peace 
of mind. 

M. de Yerteins suddenly aroused her 
— he brought a new element into her 
existence — and, strange to say, after suf- 
fering so much, she received it without 
fear. She was astonished at her inte- 
rest in a man she had known for so short 
a time, but she did not fear. She did 
not call this growing sentiment by any 
name which could alarm her security. 
The cloud he was enveloped in served to 
reassure her. She had regretted often 
in her hard life of toil the want of a 
friend on whom to rest. Priendship has 
no sex — little importance whether it is a 
man or a woman. One often says that 
when it is between man and woman, and 
they are purely united, it is more en- 
ergetic and unresisting — she desired to 
test it — no more ! 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


169 


Jeanne slept peacefully this night; 
something told her she could rely on M. 
de Verteins. A thousand things at- 
tached her to him — especially his 
poverty — for he was poor, since he said 
he was obliged to work. This poverty 
diminished the distance between them, 
and rendered their friendship more easy. 
A poor girl like herself, could not have 
a rich friend. Friendship only occurs 
between equals. 

“ Ah! if we could only be friends — I 
would be good and devoted to him — he 
seems to suffer like myself.” This was 
Mile. Derville’s last waking thought. 

M. de Verteins* thoughts were not so 
calm. Pierre was a man — he knew real 
life, serious and common — he possessed 
quiet sense, like all those who have 
passed through the storms of passion — 
he cradled no illusions — he nursed no 
chimeras — he did not disguise his true 
sentiments under false names — he knew 
that friendship from a man for a woman 
like Jeanne, could soon be called love. 
Was he in love already ? 

“ I thought I had paid my debt, and 
was relieved for life — must I commence 
again my fatal experiences? I promised 
myself to have no more adventures — I 
have reached the years of discretion — 
but to love such a loyal girl could not be 
called an adventure. Does she not offer 
all the warrant for happiness that man 
can desire ? How honest, pure, and 
sweet does her beautiful soul shine 
through those large eyes ! How distin- 
guished she is in her manner ! She walks 
like a queen or a goddess — a man must 
feel stronger with such a woman on his 
arm. Yes, but she has neither fortune, 
nor relations, nor family. She will bring 
her husband nothing but herself. But is 
not that enough ? She is loyalty, frank- 
ness, gracefulness, fascination itself! — 
and all that is at my door— I see — I 
have only to extend my hand to grasp 
it, and I allow it to escape. This would 
be truly foolish ! 

“ ‘ But/ says the grumbler, sense, ‘ is 
not a love marriage a very foolish thing 
at your time of life — and in society 
where, money is everything? Would not 
it be better to fly while there is still 
time ?’ She loves me nevertheless, I 
feel she loves me. I do not believe in 
the love at first sight our grandmothers 
so often referred to; they sometimes 


needed that complaisant excuse — but 
the sympathy between her and myself, 
is as prompt as it is strong. With such 
a woman, there are only two courses to 
choose— to fly, or to marry her. Cursed 
be he who would wish to taint this celes- 
tial purity !” 

Worn out by these contradictory 
thoughts, M. de Verteins reached his 
apartment, not far from his cousin’s. 

Mile, de Fresnelles did not take a les- 
son the next day — Jeanne was surprised 
at finding herself regretting this, on 
account of losing the opportunity of 
meeting M. de Verteins. She certainly 
reproached herself for taking this inte- 
rest in a man almost an absolute stranger. 

“ No,” said she, “ he did not part 
with me last night like a stranger. The 
noble, pure, sincere interest he takes in 
me, is not that of a stranger, If one 
can never confide in any person, or be- 
lieve in any one of God’s creatures, life 
would be insupportable. But this is 
not so — Heaven did not intend us to live 
in a desert, since He has placed an im- 
mortal faith in our hearts Notwith- 
standing the Count de Bois-Robert, I 
have faith in M. de Verteins.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

E ANNE’S mind was filled all day 
with the remembrances of last even- 
ing. More than once, as she turned a 
corner, she glanced quickly around, as 
if she hoped to see the one who en- 
grossed her thoughts. When she en- 
tered Mme. de Fresnelles’ at the exact 
hour, the next day, she felt as if every 
one must guess her secret. She instantly 
glanced at the window-seat, but he was 
not there. 

Leonie waited for her at the table, 
with open books and perfect lessons. 
All went well. Mile. Derville’s voice 
had a sweet, supplicating tone, but Le- 
onie did not understand it, and M. de 
Verteins’ name was not uttered. 

Jeanne returned home rather sad. 

She was not undeceived exactly — the 
word is too strong — but she was disap- 
pointed. Happy when she left home, 
because she hoped — unhappy on her re- 
turn, for she hoped no more. 

Some days passed silently away. M. 
de Verteins had disappeared. 


170 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


Mile. Derville felt a species of disap- 
pointment, like a sorrowful spite. 

“ Let it go ! they are all alike — each 
just like all the rest. For others I did 
not care, but for him. At last,” contin- 
ued she, plunging her hands in her fine 
hair, which she was arranging for the 
night, “ all these foolish ideas must 
leave me. No sad thoughts ! One suf- 
fers only when they wish to suffer.” 

When a person has not himself a deep 
exclusive affection for a woman, when 
one has not determined to give her a 
large part of his life — all his life, he 
ought not to raise her imagination, ex- 
cite her thoughts, embarrass her soul— 
to do thus, is to commit an unkind ac- 
tion, it is playing with the happiness of 
another. If it is true that over many 
charming light individuals, the sorrows 
of love glide like water over marble, 
they sometimes meet with some that 
these sorrows wound deeply — that they 
render desolate. 

Notwithstanding all her courage, 
Jeanne was one of these. One would 
have been convinced of this, if they 
had met her eight days after her last 
meeting with M. de Yerteins. She was 
much changed. Notwithstanding her 
great moral strength, there was an air 
of weakness and languor about her it 
was painful to see — a blue circle around 
her eyes — her pale cheek — her smile so 
much more seldom, and when it came, 
it seemed heart-breaking enough to call 
for tears. If Jeanne’s mother had been 
at her side, her mother would have pre- 
ferred to see her cry than to smile so 
sadly. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

H OW did it happen that M. de Yer- 
teins was waiting on a street far 
from the Sante, one morning before 
nine o’clock, where he had heard Jeanne 
speak of giving lessons? It was not the 
charms of the place that attracted him. 
He advanced slowly, looking impatiently 
at his watch. He watched a certain 
house very devoutly. 

A few minutes past nine Jeanne came 
out of the house that Pierre was so anx- 
iously watching. The young girl seemed 
thin, rather like an image of herself, 
but very sweet and .full of a languid, 
charming gracefulness. 


“ Hear girl ! can she have been sick ?” 
thought he, seeing her walk so slowly 
towards him. 

He came out of the shadow as she 
approached, but Jeanne, walking with 
her head down, absorbed in thinking of 
M. de Yerteins, did not see him; he 
struck his cane on the pavement, so as 
not to frighten her. 

Jeanne looked up and saw him. Her 
first impulse was to rush towards him ; 
but a secret strength stopped her sud- 
denly. A flame burned in her breast, 
the red blood rushed to her cheeks and 
retreated, leaving her still more pale. 
Pierre could believe that there was only 
a white statue before him. He then ex- 
perienced a great emotion mixed with joy. 

“ Ah !” thought he, “ if I have caused 
that change, my whole life could not re- 
pay her for her love, for giving her all 
the happiness I received from her.” 

He advanced, hat in hand, as respect- 
fully as if she had been the reigning 
queen. 

“ Behold,” said he, in a slightly altered 
tone, “ a happy chance for me, mademoi- 
selle.” 

“ Then,” thought she, suppressing the 
joy of her heart, “ it is only an accident, 
then, a simple chance; and I, fool that I 
was, believed he came here to meet me.” 
She recovered herself by a determined 
will. 

“ The rue de la Sante,” said she, “ is 
not as much frequented as the Boule- 
vard des Italiens, and it is truly a 
lucky chance to meet here at nine o’clock 
in the morning any one who lives in the 
street de Yarenne or de Glichy.” 

“ You come here, nevertheless, seve- 
ral times a week ?” 

u Yes, to give my lessons. Ho you 
come for the same reason ? Ho you 
wish to compete with me ? I warn you 
that it is a hard undertaking. We will 
both find it very difficult to live.” 

“ Fear nothing ; L will not steal your 
patrons. You shall still have Mile, de 
Cerny, who lives over there in that large 
barrack you just left. See how well- 
informed I am.” 

“ Yery well.” 

“ You are not very punctual, for you 
were not here Friday uor Monday.” 

“ That is a fact — they were all out of 
town. But how did you know that ?” 
asked she, with great vivacity. 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


171 


“ I was here both days.” 

“ Oh ! then, the chance is still more 
incomprehensible.” 

“ May I be sincere with you ?” 

Jeanne, pale and trembling, looked at 
him without speaking; but her large, 
timid eyes besought his forbearance. 

“ I wished to see you,” said he, in a 
low, sweet voice, “ in the rue de la 
Sante. It is not my fault that I am 
obliged to take the open air for a parlor. 
There is no opportunity to talk at my 
cousin’s, and you will not permit me 
to visit your house. But since you 
have once permitted me to be your es- 
cort — ” 

“ Oh ! here,” said she, with a little 
malicious fun, “ is the place I take the 
omnibus.” 

“You naughty little one ! Wait at 
least till it is fiill:” 

Her only reply was a sweet smile. 

I wish to speak to you, and as I 
dare not ask you to meet me, I must 
catch you on the wing.” 

Whilst talking they walked alongside 
of each other. 

“ Sir,” said Jeanne, in a few moments, 
with a shade of charming embarrass- 
ment, “ I do not know how to tell you — 
but you must understand — it is not 
nightfall, as it was last week, and if any 
of my pupil’s relations should meet me 
tete-a-tete with a young gentleman — ” 

“A young gentleman! You flatter 
me, that you may send me away; but I 
am not going.” 

“ You must — what will the people 
say ?” 

“ Oh ! let the world alone. It is 
foolish when it is not wicked, and it is 
wicked when it is not foolish.” 

“ Still we must regard it. Adieu, sir.” 

At a turn in the street, Jeanne saw 
a little coupe, with a large horse, no 
arms on the side, only a little wreath of 
parsley leaves surrounded with pearl 
flowers. The coachman on his box, 
straight and grave as a Homan emperor, 
did not turn his head. 

“ Get in,” said M. de Yerteins, in a 
tone of sweet authority. 

In place of doing so, Jeanne drew 
back. 

“ I implore you to !” continued M. 
de Yerteins, beseeching her with his 
looks. 

“ And where then must I go to?” 


“ Where you wish, provided I may 
accompany you.” 

“ Do you know this seems as if I was 
being carried off?” 

“ Fortunately there are no specta- 
tors,” said Pierre, looking around. 

Mile. Derville got in ; strange as all 
this seemed, she had perfect confidence. 
M. de Yerteins took his seat alongside 
of her, and the carriage started without 
any orders being given to the coachman. 
Exceptional positions authorize conduct 
that would not be allowed in ordinary 
life. 

“ You and I, mademoiselle, are per- 
fectly free, and owe an account of our 
actions only to God and to man. If 
you could not have granted what I ask 
of you, I would not have asked it.” 
Pierre spoke with such noble sincerity, 
that Jeanne was soon reassured. 

“ I have confidence !” murmured 
Jeanne. 

The carriage, with the blooded horses, 
drove much more rapidly than the 
omnibus horses Jeanne was accustomed 
to. The young girl did not know where 
she was going, and could not prevent a 
feeling of uneasiness. Pierre himself 
was much moved. Jeanne, seeing his 
emotion, calmed her own. They stopped 
before the gate of the Jardin des 
Plantes, they got out, and walked to a 
beautiful seat crowned by a superb tree. 

“ Sit down, mademoiselle,” said 
Pierre, leading Jeanne to a seat placed 
in the shade of the tree. 

The young girl yielded, with child- 
like docility. M. de Yerteins sat down 
beside her, and took her hand ; he re- 
mained silent a few moments, then 
turning to Jeanne, said : 

“ Do you know, mademoiselle, why 
I have shunned you so carefully for 
eight days ?” 

“No, sir; I acknowledge I am igno- 
rant.” 

“ Have you not been rather astonished 
at this extraordinary movement ?” 

“ Situated as we were — such slight 
acquaintances — sir, I have no right to 
be astonished.” 

“You have noticed that I avoided 
you ?” 

“ Ah ! goodness ! why did you take 
this trouble ?” 

“ Are you sincere in this question, 
mademoiselle ?” 


172 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ I assure you, sir, that frankness is 
one of my greatest faults.” 

“ Preserve it well, and to-day allow 
me to call on it.” 

“ Not too much ?” said Jeanne, rais- 
ing her beautiful eyes sweetly. 

“ No, only a little. What do you 
think of me ?” 

“ Allow me to say, I do not know 
you well enough to have an opinion 
personally. I am forced to take that 
of others.” 

“ A fact?” 

“ Do not complain, since that is 
good.” 

“ Thank you ! but I return to my 
first question. What do you think of 
me in regard to yourself?” 

“ Well, since you require it, I have 
always found you anxious to be kind to 
me, that you have treated me always 
with distinguished consideration, as they 
say in your society, that you have shown 
me a forethought and regard — ” 

Jeanne stopped. 

“ Is this all ?” said M. de Yerteins. 

“ Is not that enough ?” 

“ No, go on !” 

“ Well, I have attributed all that to 
your goodness rather than my merits, 
and to the benevolence of a noble and 
generous soul. You have said to your- 
self that I was an honest young girl, in 
a difficult and precarious situation, and 
by treating me as a lady of your own 
rank, you have addressed to me the 
most delicate flattery.” 

“ Is this all ?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed !” 

“ Well, you have not done justice- to 
my feelings. You have not given this 
deep, ardent, exalted sympathy its true 
name, which I had -despaired of experi- 
encing until I met you. It is love ! Do 
not let this word frighten you. Listen 
without fear. It is love, love in its 
highest terms.” 

Jeanne was singularly moved, her 
heart beat quickly, the blood rushed to 
her cheeks, she dared not look at M. 
de Yerteins. She felt the silence be- 
coming too significant. 

u Did you fly from me because you 
loved me ?” she asked, directly. 

“ For that very reason,” replied he, 
with great effort ; “ but,” added he, with 
a child-like manner, “ some resolutions 
are easier made than kept. I have 


failed in the strength to keep mine, and, 
pardon the avowal, it is because I could 
not help myself that I am at your feet;” 
and he knelt before her. 

Jeanne did not reply, but she looked 
at him with sweet and infinite tender- 
ness, seeming to say, “You would then 
have been very unhappy to know that I 
also loved you V’ 

“ Yes, you are right,” said he, answer- 
ing her looks. “ I was foolish — stupid 
— mad ; but how could I help myself? 
I wanted confidence.” 

“ Confidence !” 

“ Yes, confidence in myself, and per- 
haps in you.” 

“ Confidence then in both of us ?” 

“ I said to myself, a woman like you was 
made for luxury, brightness, and the 
joys of a happy life — your true des- 
tiny, and I believed the man who could 
not offer you all that had no right to 
aspire to your hand.” 

“ You had a flattering opinion of me, 
and one that proves how little you know 
my character. Are these joys you speak 
of made for me ? Is my life anything 
but one continued toil ? A task always 
accepted, but never ended, renewed 
from day to day. And I resign myself 
to this life, to this sometimes hard duty 
entirely alone, by myself, without aid ! 
without a friendly hand to lean upon ! 
without one dear voice to say to me, 

{ Courage, there are two of us !’ And do 
you think that having a loyal and de- 
voted affection near me, I would dream 
of the ordinary pleasures which I never 
enjoyed ? Ah, sir ! let me tell you, 
you have judged wrongly !” 

“ Perhaps so; but it was not a judg- 
ment without appeal. Eight days have 
changed my ideas, and taught me that I 
cannot live without you. They have 
given me the audacity to ask you to 
allow me to partake of the trials of your 
life, to render them, if possible, lighter.” 

Jeanne’s eyes rested on him, full of 
confidence, and bright with heavenly 
peace. But she waited silently for him 
to continue. 

“ Jeanne,” said M. de Yerteins, “ you 
now understand my scruples, and what- 
ever you may say, you must esteem the 
efforts I have made to conquer the sen- 
timents that draw me towards you. I 
reproach myself with the egotistical 
desire which forces me to sacrifice you 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


173 


to myself, and to prevent the occasion 
perhaps of your becoming all at once 
rich and happy.” 

“ Sir,” replied the young girl, with 
dignity, which struck M. de Yerteins, 
“ I have worked all my life, so as not 
to need the occasion you speak about. 
I have done all in my power to gain 
that independence which is a woman’s 
safe-guard — the sole guarantee of her 
liberty, the dignity of her life, which 
permits me to ask only affection from 
the man who loves me enough to wish 
me for a wife !” 

“ Then be mine !” cried M. de Yer- 
teins, holding out both hands. “ The 
existence I offer you will be as hard and 
laborious as the one you lead, but the 
strength of this affection, the devoted 
aid you have just spoken of, never, no 
never, believe me, will any man more 
gladly offer - them.” 

“ And no woman will ever be more 
happy to accept them.” 

“ Oh ! thank you !” said he, kissing 
both her hands. “ This is the happiest 
day of my life. My wife,” said he, with 
the most tender emphasis that could be 
given to the words, “ My wife, will she 
do me the honor to breakfast with me ?” 

u Ought I to ?” said Jeanne, with a 
reliance it was pleasant to observe. 
“ You know whether I ought to say yes; 
if so I will accept. You are now the 
master of my fate ; I abdicate all power 
into your hands.” 

“ Then come.” 

They went to the Park de Bercy, and 
had a modest repast, but a most charm- 
ing time, their happy souls expanding 
to each other. They made a thousand 
plans for a happy life, and were amazed 
to find out how well they agreed. 

Jeanne had long since said she did 
not fear work. Pierre seemed equally 
submissive to the hard common law. 
Had he not told Mile. Derville that he 
also worked ? She was, it is true, en- 
tirely ignorant of the nature of his occu- 
pation. This sudden demand of mar- 
riage, agreed to in a burst of sympathy, 
had prevented her from obtaining “ ref- 
erences” from him, as they commonly 
say. She had confidence. 

Besides, as she was poor herself, she 
felt she had no right to inquire as to the 
fortune of her intended. Then she 
loved — love is daring ! It was with a 


feeling of happiness she yielded blindly 
to her destiny. 

Nothing escaped M. de Yerteins' 
notice. He understood and appreciated 
her delicate reserve. But, at the same 
time, he considered that if Jeanne had 
come out successful in this first trial, 
there was no reason to prolong it. She 
had proved her disinterestedness and 
generosity. He must notask more. 

“ Marriage is a serious thing,” said 
he. u In the midst of the joys of love 
we must not feel sad. Still we must 
think a little of the future — at least one 
of us.” 

“ Not one, but both !” replied Jeanne. 

“ In a marriage, as I understand it, 
this ought to belong to the husband 
alone ; and I have never felt more bit- 
terly than now, remorse for the faults 
of my youth.” 

These words, “ faults of my youth,” 
caused a cold shudder to run through 
Jeanne. 

“ My God !” thought she, “ do I 
already love him so much as to be jeal- 
ous of the past ?” 

“ For a long time,” continued M. de 
Yerteins, “ I have led the dissipated life 
of the men of my time. Alas ! I have 
wasted the larger part of the inheritance 
I was fortunate to possess too young. 
Whilst I alone had to endure the results 
of my errors, they did not trouble me. 
It requires very little to turn a soldier 
into a philosopher. It is now, Jeanne, 
when I think of you, that my trouble 
commences !” 

Mile. Derville’s only reply was a 
superb gesture of disdain. 

“ I am then poor ; and, still worse — 
poor through my own fault. In such 
conditions perhaps we ought not to be 
so selfish as to make a love marriage ; 
but I tried in vain to conquer my heart. 
At least, in giving me so generously 
your hand, you recall my feelings of 
duty. 

“I have been arranging my affairs 
for eight days. A notary has my order. 
I have paid all my debts. To-morrow, 
I will find a great manufacturing friend 
of mine, and ask a situation in his count- 
ing-house. By thus drawing on my 
own resources, and you may be certain 
I will draw well, and on yours, too, my 
beautiful Jeanne, we will have an in- 
come of seven or eight thousand francs.’ ’ 


174 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOH. 


“ That, with what I gain from the 
Rosery, will give us fifteen thousand 
francs of income, my friend ! But do 
you know that is a fortune ? Only, sir, 
as you are a spendthrift — does it make 
you angry to hear that V ’ 

“ It humiliates me — hut does not 
make me angry.” 

“Well as you are a spendthrift, and 
I a very economical little woman, I must 
hold the purse strings, that we may not 
spend everything.” 

“You avaricious one !” 

“ Have you not just said, we must 
remember the future.” 

“ And the fortunes of those who come 
in the future.” Jeanne blushed, and 
looked at her watch. 

“ Twelve already !” 

“ Well what of that ?” 

“ It is the day I teach Mile. Anfonso.” 

“ The banker’s daughter ?” 

“ Yes, the same.” 

“ Rue d’Hauteville ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Corner of the Boulevard ?” 

“ Right. Bo you know her ?” 

“ I know her.” 

“ I shall be late for the first time in 
my life.” 

“ And for the last. But we do not 
get married every day. Render me this 
justice, that I have not tried to keep 
you. It seems as if I was already your 
husband, and wish to help you to do 
your duty. I have kept the carriage. 
It belongs to one of my friends. The 
horses go like the wind. May I take 
you to the banker’s door ?” 

Jeanne nodded her assent. She had 
already tied on her hat. 

“ I have not yet had my engagement 
kiss !” said Pierre, with an unhappy 
air. 

“ Because you have not asked for it,” 
said Jeanne, offering him her forehead 
that no man’s lips had ever touched-. 

u Oh ! Jeanne dear ! Jeanne, I adore 
you !” said he, drawing her to him, and 
pressing her close to his breast. 

“ I believe you do,” said she, looking 
at him with eyes that seemed to be the 
portals of heaven. 

They returned rapidly to Paris. 

“ It is pleasant to own a carriage,” 
said Jeanne, settling herself in the cor- 
ner with one hand still in M. de Yer- 
teins’. 


“ If you would like one — ” 

“ But what would that cost a year ?” 

“In Paris?” 

“ Yes, in Paris ; since that is to be 
our home.” 

“Between six and eight thousand 
francs, counting everything.” 

“ J ust the half of our income.” 

“ That is true ; but you would save in 
omnibuses, and you would not be so long 
away from me.” 

Whilst enjoying such tender badinage, 
they reached the boulevard where they 
must part. 

“ When may I see you again ?” asked 
M. de Yerteins. 

“ When you please; now my life be- 
longs to you. No man has ever yet 
crossed the threshold of my door. I 
wish now to receive the fruits of my dis- 
cretion, which has not cost me much, 
but which is now to my advantage, as it 
permits me to be as free with you as I 
am independent towards others. I have 
a thousand things to do to-day, but if 
you are not too hard to please come 
dine with me to-morrow. My Bretonne 
is not a professed cook, but she will do 
her best, which is not bad, and she will 
only be too happy to serve you when 
she knows. But here we are; do not 
show yourself yet, adieu, till we meet 
to-morrow. 

“ And for ever.” 

She opened the door, and, light as a 
bird, disappeared among the people, after 
throwing a look filled with her whole 
soul to the one she had left. 

“Drive home!” said M. de Yerteins 
to the coachman. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

H E threw himself in the corner 
Jeanne had just left, which still 
bore the heat and impression of her 
charming form. 

“ Yes, indeed !” said he to himself, 
“ I love her ! I love her to madness ! and I 
can no longer live without her. I have 
done what I ought to do — I know she is 
full of merit — I see she is full of grace. 
Her mind is as fine as her person is dis- 
tinguished. She is as good as she is 
beautiful. She has had many unhappy 
days — I will try and make her forget 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


175 


them. I wish to make her happy, by 
my love.” 

Happy ? Jeanne was so already. The 
radiant joy of her soul shone on her face. 
As she entered Mme. Anfonso’s saloon, 
Mile. Eudoxie, a sweet child, full of 
natural grace, cried out : “ Goodness ! 
mademoiselle, what have you done to be 
so pretty to day ?” 

“ I have been out driving in the fresh 
air,” replied Jeanne ; “ perhaps that has 
given me a color.” 

Mile. Anfonso was not mistaken. 
Jeanne’s new feelings gave an unaccus- 
tomed animation to her whole face. She 
was another woman, and everyone might 
see that it was only necessary for her to 
be happy in order to be handsome. 

The transformation was so great, it 
could not pass unobserved. When Jac- 
queline opened the door for Mile. Der- 
ville, she stood stationary in the middle 
of the ante-room and looked her full in 
the eyes. 

“ What has happened. Mademoiselle 
Jeanne ?” asked she, with her frank ab- 
ruptness. “ I have not seen you this way 
for many a long day.” 

“ Well. Jacqueline, a lover has come 
to me — art thou now satisfied ?” 

“Yes. Thank Jesus! for, without 
blaming any one, by my faith ! you ought 
to have had one many a long day ago.” 

“I believe I have lost nothing by 
waiting.” 

“ He is young?” 

“ Not too young.” 

“ Rich ?” 

“ Alas ! no.” 

“ Handsome ?” 

“ Nothing to be said on that score !” 

“ What then has he ?” 

“ I believe he is good.” 

“ That is something.” 

“ And that he loves me — ” 

“ And do you think I am going to 
like him ?” 

“ You ! Perhaps not ; but I do !” 

“ When shall I see him ?” 

“ Soon ; I have invited him to dinner 
to-morrow.” 

“ I will make him some pancakes.” 

“ Do your best. I do not think he 
will be hard to please.” 

“Oh, I know! lovers eat anything. 
They swallow all, without knowing what 
is placed before them. They dine with 
their eyes.” 

12 


The next day Jacqueline scrubbed, 
brushed, swept, and made the floors so 
shining it was dangerous to walk on 
them without rubber shoes. She placed 
fresh flowers in the flower-pots — could 
anything be too good for mademoiselle’s 
intended ? 

The dinner was charming — as all 
lovers’ dinners are. Pierre was in a 
most charming mood ; he exerted all his 
fine spirits and good humor to please 
Mile. Derville. 

Jeanne, so accustomed to a long soli- 
tude, felt this growing intimacy infinitely 
charming. 

M. de Verteins’ love showed in his 
looks, the tones of his voice, in his 
whole being. With great art he led the 
conversation to topics in which they 
were both interested — on themselves — 
and he knew how to mix with all things 
the intimate affection which is the joy 
and life of both. 

“Dear Jeanne,” said he, as he was 
leaving, “ I have already lost so much 
time that I cannot wait long. Will you 
permit me to hasten all the formalities 
that would delay the happy moment 
that will crown my every wish?” 

“ Do as you please, my friend — you 
remember what I said yesterday — I 
have no longer any will of my own.” 

“What a charming wife I shall 
have,” thought M. de Verteins, “ pro- 
vided marriage does not spoil her, a 
thing we sometimes see. But,” added 
he soon, with a reassuring thought, “she 
marries me for myself.” 

“ Are there many — formalities, as you 
say ? I am very ignorant of all that.” 

“No, not many. In the situation 
you and I are in it is very easy to get 
married. We are both orphans and of 
age. Our contract has been made in 
advance by the Code which has more 
mind than notaries. In twelve days, 
my dear little Jeanne, we can be — you 
the most adored of wives — I the hap- 
piest of husbands.” 

“Twelve days! that is too soon!” 
replied Jeanne, who, very brave at a 
distance, became timid and reserved at 
this short notice, as was natural to her 
sex. 

“Well, I will give you two weeks,” 
said M. de Verteins, smiling; “but do 
not ask more, for this is positively all I 
can do for you.” 


176 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


It was late — Jeanne dared not say 
so ! but she looked at the clock. 

“ I understand,” said he, “you send 
me away. Adieu, my beautiful Jeanne, 
I am going, but remember I leave my 
heart with you.” 

“ Come look for it to-morrow. If 
you do not find it we will give you 
another in its place.” 

He went away transported. 

“ How did you like him ?” Mile. Der- 
ville asked of her nurse, as soon as they 
were alone. 

“I find, mademoiselle, that you have 
chosen well. He is beautiful when he 
looks at you, and he looks at you all the 
time. He has glowing eyes! But he 
is rather pale.” 

“ As distinguished men always are, 
unhappily. But he must be very foolish, 
since he desires to be my husband.” 

The honest Bretonne found this an 
unanswerable argument, so she remained 
silent. 

“ Go, my poor girl, you will fall 
asleep,” said Mile. Derville ; “ I do not 
need thee. You had better sleep in 
your little bed, than while standing 
up.” 

Jacqueline went to bed. As for 
Jeanne, she was not sleepy; so she 
wrote to M. Gravis, to inform him of 
her marriage, and to obtain her family 
papers. 

Since the day the notary had dared 
to disclose his passion in the tete-it-tete, 
his official and venerable head had be- 
come very gray. Mile. Derville, whose 
happiness had not rendered her selfish, 
feared that too warm a spark might still 
be left in his old heart; so she envel- 
oped her news in any number of orator- 
ical precautions. The honest notary 
swallowed, without too many wry faces, 
the pill thus prepared ; and he sent the 
young lady the desired papers, with 
many flowers of rhetoric, in the shape 
of felicitations. 

“ Now,” said Jeanne, “ my affairs are 
all arranged on this subject; what shall 
I do with my pupils ? They are all my 
friends — I will invite them to my wed- 
ding — this will inform them of the 
event. But I must not be ungrateful — 
there is a certain little Agla6 Sorel in 
the world, without whom, at one mo- 
ment, I would most probably have died 
of hunger. She shall have my first 
visit.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

N EXT morning, Jeanne mounted 
slowly the five flights of the young 
worker, and entered her room like a sun- 
beam. 

“ What good wind brought you here ?” 
said Aglae, running to meet her. 

“ The wind of marriage.” 

“ You have then met Prince Char- 
mant, and his thousand livres of in- 
come.” 

“ Not so titled, nor so charming, and 
much less than a thousand livres of in- 
come.” 

“ But why then do you marry him ?” 
“ Because I love him.” 

“ And because he loves you ?” 

“ Doubtlessly.” 

U I thought such things happened 
only in books.” 

“And in life, but not so often. I 
come to invite you to my marriage.” 

“ And I will not disappoint you — you 
must let Bose and me make your wed- 
ding-dress, to forget the other — ” 

“ Oh, the other — if you only knew 
how long it is since I have forgotten 
that.” 

“ When is the ceremony?” 

“ I will let you know the day and the 
hour — I wished to tell you the news 
first.” 

“Ah! my dear Jeanne, no one but 
you would have such ideas. But I love 
you so much you ought to be kind to 
me.” 

“ That is true,” said Jeanne, kissing 
her. 

With the same light step she hurried 
to Mme. de l’Isle’s. She was so happy 
she wished to tell every one. 

“ Good !” said Constance, as she en- 
tered, radiantly beautiful. “ She has been 
touched by love, as one can easily per- 
ceive. I wonder what she has to tell 
me ?” 

“ Dear madame,” said Jeanne, shaking 
hands, “ you have always taken such 
an interest in me, that I have no right 
to hide anything from you. I am going 
to be married !” 

“ I see that perfectly,” replied Mad- 
ame de Tlsle, kissing her. “ You cannot 
imagine that I believe you would look 
so bright for me. But sit down and 
tell me all about it. And you are 
really going to be married, you little sly 
puss — and against whom ? as M. l’Isle 
would say.” 


THE PUPIL OF THE 

“ It is the most simple story in the 
world. I have met a young gentleman 
(but no, I cannot even call him young), 
a gentleman, if you like. He told me 
he loved me. He said it earnestly. I 
have believed him, and have felt I 
loved him also.” 

“ How, all of a sudden ?” 

“ My goodness ! yes, all of a sudden.” 

“ Go on ! I listen, it is such fun.” 

“ He asked if I would marry him. 
I said yes, and we are to be married in 
fifteen days. That is all.” 

“ Impossible ! why it is a perfect 
novel; and what is the name of the 
hero ?” 

“ M. Pierre de Verteins.” 

“M. de Verteins! that is a name 
belonging to the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
main.” 

“ That is the very place I met him. 
Is it against the law to marry in the 
Faubourg Saint-Germain ?” 

“ No, indeed! But wait a moment. 
M. Pierre de Verteins? I have it. 
My memory has returned. Your mon- 
sieur was pointed out to me at a state 
ball.” 

“Very likely, although he does not 
care much for that sort of thing; be- 
tween ourselves, he is a little savage, as 
they say.” 

“ Well ! dear little one, his savageness 
is of no account. Savages in Paris, you 
see, always attend balls. Your savage 
is brown — is he not? Tall and thin, 
pale complexion, lively bright eyes?” 

“ I believe this description verifies 
him.” 

“Well, then, your husband is a hero, 
my beautiful one.” 

“ They tell me he has distinguished 
himself in the American war.” 

“ And elsewhere,” replied Mme. de 
l’Isle, with a malicious smile. 

Jeanne saw that the lovely Constance 
had some wicked story to tell that she 
had better not hear. 

“ Oh ! madame,” said she, with an 
imploring movement, “ do not crush my 
happiness.” 

“ Goodness preserve me from that ! it 
is too rare a bird ! I would not even 
frighten it. Besides, darling, I have 
never heard anything but good of M. 
de Verteins.” 

“Then, will you be kind enough to 


LEGION OF HONOR. 177 

stand in my mother's place on the day 
I am married ?” 

“ On that day and for all your life.” 

“ Oh ! how much I am loved now ,” 
thought Mile. Derville, involuntarily 
thinking of the past. But she quickly 
banished these sad thoughts, and de- 
parted to give her lessons as usual. 

“ It will be enough to take one or two 
days’ holiday.” 

The week passed rapidly. Mile. Der- 
ville hardly knew how. M. de Verteins 
saw her every morning and evening, and 
the whole day was taken up with her 
duties. 

“ Since I am obliged to allow you to 
continue your occupations, you must 
not let me interrupt them. I will ar- 
range my hours to suit you, for my time 
is less precious than yours.” 

We can now understand M. de Ver- 
teins’ timely intervention, when M. de 
Blanchelande was making his criminal 
attempt. He was on his way as usual 
to Jeanne’s house when he met Jacque- 
line in the rue de Clichy. She did not 
want the trouble of turning back ; so she 
gave him the key of the apartments, with 
the honest frankness of her nature, say- 
ing, 

“ Go in, sir. Mademoiselle is at home.” 

Pierre ascended. 

Just as he was knocking at the door, 
he heard the excited voice of the baron. 
He listened involuntarily for a few mo- 
ments, and as soon as he understood the 
cruel intentions of the baron, he rushed 
into the room, appearing to- his fiancee 
as her saviour — to M. de Blanchelande as 
the avenger. 

We know the rest. 

After having settled the baron very 
definitely, M. de Verteins returned to 
Jeanne quiet, calm. With smiling lips 
and extended hand, he feared this pain- 
ful emotion would be dangerous for her, 
if prolonged. 

He strove to stifle his indignation, 
and with as indifferent a tone as he could 
assume, he said, while kissing her fore- 
head, and pressing her two little trem- 
bling hands, “ Dear Jeanne, I beg you 
not to think any more of this villain. It 
will spoil our evening.” 

“ Oh ! that man !” said J eanne, placing 
her hand over her eyes. “If you only 
knew all !” 


173 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ I know enough to be able to guess 
the rest. But bold, dear Jeanne, we 
bad better not speak of him. I have 
now mastered my rage, but if my indig- 
nation gets the better of me, I cannot 
trust myself — I will call M. de Blanche- 
lande to a stern account.” 

“ Ob ! M. de Blanchelande ! You 
know him, then?” said Jeanne, becom- 
ing very pale. 

“ Yes, I know him,” replied M. de 
Verteins, looking into Jeanne’s eyes. 

“ And — his son-in-law” — stammered 
Mile. Derville — “ do you also know 
him ?” 

“ 0, my darling,” said M. de Ver- 
teins, kissing her hair and her closed 
eyes, “ I love thee as my wife ; I believe 
in thee as I would believe in a cherished 
daughter who had never left my side; I 
adore thy celestial purity ; but, for thy 
mother’s sake, Jeanne, I implore thee to 
forget thy past misfortunes — thy past 
where there were others — and. look en- 
tirely to the future, where there are only 
you and me.” 

“Oh! you are goodness itself!” said 
Jeanne, bursting into sobs and tears. 

M. de Yerteins felt this would relieve 
her, so he silently pressed her head on 
his shoulder and let her weep a long 
time. When she was more calm : 

“ My poor angel,” said be, “ my chas- 
tisement of M. de Blanchelande has 
been so severe, you have nothing more 
to fear from him. Soon I will always 
be near you, and then you can fear no 
one. I give you notice I am hastening 
the moment as much as possible.” 

Jeanne silently looked at M. de 
Verteins. The color came to her cheeks, 
the smile to her lips, peace to her brow. 

“ The affair is ended, we must talk of 
something else,” thought M. de Ver- 
teins. 

“ What are you thinking about?” said 
Jeanne, taking his hand. 

“ I think,” replied he, “ if I were rich 
I would have everything worthy of you 
— but as it is, you must be contented 
with what I can do. Only believe me, 
it is far below your deserts.” 

“ Dear foolish creature ! I need no- 
thing but your love.” 

“You cannot dress yourself in that, 
my little darling ! Will you allow me 
to send you some of my cousin’s work- 
people? You can have perfect confi- 


dence in them. It will only be necessary 
for them to take your measure.” 

“ I do not desire to annoy you, my 
friend, but you are too much interested 
in useless details. I only need one 
white dress, and I have ordered that. 
If you wish to please me very much, 
since we are poor, do not give me any 
wedding presents — I think the custom 
of wedding presents so useless. You 
accumulate a multitude of things that 
are of no use, and soon go out of fashion. 
It is much better to keep our little 
savings, and get things later, as we need 
them. Take me just as I am — without 
wedding presents — if you please.” 

“ I am perfectly willing to take you 
as you are,” said Pierre, pressing her 
close in his arms ; “ but, dear child, be- 
cause the man who is to marry you is not 
a millionaire, there is no reason to hu- 
miliate him by not allowing him to do 
what he can. I have found one or two 
notes in a drawer ; let me employ them 
as I desire. Oh ! do not be afraid ; I 
cannot be very foolishly extravagant.” 

“ So much the better; you will save 
me the trouble of scolding you. But I 
must send you away. Look at the clock 
— almost ten ! and to-morrow is the day 
of my famous twenty-franc lesson, at 
half-past seven, A. M., at rue de Babylon.” 

“ That suits exactly. I have some 
business in that quarter, and I still have 
the little carriage at my disposal, with 
the fast horse. I will call for you, and 
we will go together, if you will.” 

“ Oh ! darling, if you spoil me like 
this — before — ” 

“ I will spoil you more — afterwards ! 
Farewell, till to-morrow.” 

“ Till to-morrow, dear friend.” 

The next day M. de Verteins came at 
the appointed hour. 

During the drive he drew a little well- 
worn velvet case from his pocket. 

“ Your ring is not yet finished ; it is 
still at the jeweller’s, where they are 
engraving our two names. But here is 
a little ring; it was my mother’s, who 
would have loved you a great deal. Dear 
Jeanne, wear it always, please;” and he 
placed on her finger a beautiful emerald 
ring, surrounded by little diamonds. 

“Oh! it is too beautiful,” said the 
young girl, with childish delight. 

“ I did not buy it, and I cannot sell 
it, for it was my mother’s. You see I 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


1T9 


am obliged to give it to you, and you are 
condemned to wear it.” 

“ Oh ! I will never leave it off!” 

“ I believe I have a few more stones 
like that, a pair of ear-rings — perhaps 
even a bracelet — I am not perfectly sure. 
All there is will be yours, however.” 

“ You give so sweetly, Pierre, one is 
glad to receive anything from you, be- 
cause you give it.” 

“ No one ever was more sweetly 
thanked,” thought M. de Yerteins. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HE days flew. 

The day before the marriage they 
brought her wedding presents. 

Jeanne was out. 

On her return she was dazzled by the 
good taste, profusion, and richness of all 
she saw. Handsome laces, cashmeres, 
jewels, splendid dresses ; she looked at 
them all, and packed them up again. 
“ They have made a mistake. This is 
not for me. The same houses have re- 
ceived two orders at the same time, and 
they have sent Cinderella the princess’s 
trousseau, and the princess that of Cin- 
derella. For a quarter of an hour the 
princess will be much disappointed. As 
for Cinderella, her head would be turned 
if she were not a very reasonable per- 
. son, and for a long time certain that she 
had not a fairy for a godmother ; but I 
do not wish Pierre to know anything 
about that; he is so good he may feel 
sorry. Go, Jacqueline, hide all this in 
my chamber. Make haste, my good 
girl ! That will be better than to stand 
still, with thy long arms and big eyes.” 

“ Is it not for you then, mademoi- 
selle?” 

“ How could you dream of such a 
thing ? In that box there is the rent 
of three or four Roserys.” 

“ Goodness, is that possible ?” 

“ Very possible; but go put all these 
away. Shall I help you ?” 

The unhappy corbeille had hardly 
disappeared when M. de Yerteins rang 
the bell. 

“ Well, darling,” said he, to Jeanne, 
“where is your ‘ corbeille ?’ ” 

“ My corbeille !” 

“ Yes, your corbeille ! it has disap- 
peared. What does that mean ?” 


“It has not yet arrived, my friend.” 

“ How not arrived ! I came to the 
door with the person who carried it.” 

“ There has been a serious mistake.” 

“ What stories they have told, my 
poor angel; but let it alone. I will 
arrange all that without any trouble.’' 

He rang the bell — Jacqueline came. 
Mile. Derville did not wish him to ques- 
tion her uncouth Bretonne, so she said : 

“ Listen, my friend. A corbeille 
really came here, but not mine ; there 
is a mistake that will be quickly re- 
paired.” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ Well, from the magnificence of all 
the things. This corbeille is worth at 
least twenty-five thousand francs.” 

“ Well, what of that ?” 

“Well, you have not a purse as big 
as your heart, my dear Pierre; and 
twenty-five thousand francs in my cor- 
beille is positively forbidden, my friend.” 

“ Ho you know the Duchess of Som- 
breuse ?” 

“ By name.” 

“ She is my aunt ! An aunt who 
loves me as if I were her own son. The 
best of women ! When I told her about 
my marriage I told her all — how good 
you were, how charming, and how much 
your time was taken up, and I asked 
her to superintend your corbeille. ‘I 
will, with pleasure,’ said she, ‘on one 
condition, that you will leave it entirely 
to me, and allow me to offer it as my 
gift to my future niece.’ I could not 
refuse my aunt — I have accepted ; you 
must do the same, my lovely Jeanne, 
and without any reflections.” 

“ But, my friend, these things are all 
too beautiful for my use l” 

“ Perhaps not. Occasions may occur. 
Besides, a shawl in a wardrobe costs less 
than a horse in a stable ; and a few 
yards of lace in a drawer never ruins 
any one. You need not wear them when 
you give your lessons !” 

Jeanne would not have been a woman 
if she had not yielded to such good 
reasons from a man she adored, and 
given with such a deep conviction, and 
the evening was passed in examining 
silks and trying on jewelry. 

“ I see,” said she, “ I must always end 
by doing what you desire.” 

“ To commence then would be more 
simple !” 



180 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


“ You tyrant !” 

“ Say victim ! Listen, Jeanne, I do 
not order this time ; I entreat — ” 

“ What more do you want ?” 

“Ask eight days, holiday from your 
pupils !” 

“Do that first. What else do you 
wish V ’ 

“ Can you ask that, you rogue ? Do 
you not see that I would suffer to have 
our first few days cut up into little 
pieces ? I feel I could not have courage 
enough to spare you. We will take a 
trip.” 

“ Oh, how could Lguess your wishes ?” 
said Jeanne, thanking him with her 
looks. “ But where will you take me, 
sir ?” 

“ I have not yet decided. But of what 
importance is that ? we can go where we 
please. France is a large country, and 
we can find some pretty little corner in 
which to hide our happiness !” 

“ I am agreed !” said Jeanne. 

The great day arrived. “ The hap- 
piest day,” as the good old song says, 
“ of your life.” 

Early in the morning Constance came, 
to be near her, to help make her very 
beautiful — a not very difficult task. 
The wedding dress, which becomes 
every one, marvellously suited Jeanne, 
and Mme. de ITsle, as she kissed her 
forehead could not help exclaiming, “You 
are the most beautiful bride I have ever 
seen !” 

This was also the opinion of M. de 
Yerteins’ two witnesses, who were struck 
by her distinguished appearance and 
good manners. 

At the mayor’s there was only the 
number of people necessary to render 
the act valid, and Constance, who, in 
undertaking the part of Jeanne’s mo- 
ther, would not quit her for a moment. 

Mile. Derville could not restrain a 
movement of surprise when she heard 
the title of marquis given to her in- 
tended. 

“ Pardon me,” he whispered in her 
ear. “ I didn’t think of mentioning 
this circumstance — it seems so insignifi- 
cant to-day. Are you annoyed at be- 
coming a marchioness ?” 

“ I would marry you, even if you 
were a duke,” she replied, with a smile. 

The church of the Trinity was not 
then the splendid edifice it is now. It 


was only a common stone-plastered chap- 
el, with almost bare walls. But flowers 
scattered profusely in every direction, 
gave it to-day the air of a fete. 

When Jeanne arrived before the door 
where the Swiss was waiting for them, 
she saw the street was filled with superb 
equipages. The panels of the carriages 
were collections of heraldry — gold and 
silver liveries in all directions — footmen 
in short coats, and coachmen with pow- 
dered hair. The fiancee, in walking to 
the altar, had to pass through a brilliant, 
curious, interested crowd. 

M. de Yerteins had the reputation of 
being a “ successful man.” This rouses 
the feelings of women, and foolishly ex- 
cites their interest. His marriage had 
been much talked about, and his future 
bride had been the subject of many 
thousand commentaries. They said she 
was beautiful and accomplished, and that 
the gallant marquis was making a love 
marriage under the force of very strong 
passion — and passion is such a rare 
thing in this calm, cold world, that we 
are drawn to her as to an affecting play. 

Let us add, no one was disappointed. 
The high opinion they had formed of 
one who could thus win M. de Yerteins, 
was surpassed by the reality. They 
had expected to see a beauty, as is 
found in Paris and elsewhere, in all so- 
cieties in this zone. But no one con- 
ceived of such distinction, such refine- 
ment, such truly aristocratic elegance. 
The proudest among them was forced to 
recognise in Jeanne an equal. 

Feelings express themselves in dif- 
ferent ways, following the manners of 
the world they spring from. Elsewhere 
approbation would have been more sig- 
nificantly expressed. Here it was impos- 
sible — and here there was only a slight 
murmur, or rather a sweet rumor, softly 
shaded. Jeanne felt, nevertheless, that 
she was favorably received into this 
systematically exclusive society. She 
felt happy, less on her own account, 
than for his to whom belonged already 
her whole thoughts. She looked at him 
as if to say : “ Art thou contented, mas- 
ter of my life ? Do I satisfy your 
friends sufficiently ? Do you feel a little 
proud of your wife ?” 

The marquis’s face was beaming with 
such a deep, pure joy, he looked so 
much younger than usual, that Jeanne 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


181 


felt happier than ever, when she saw 
how happy she made him. Here and 
there, she recognised in the crowd the 
astonished faces of her pupils, who had 
come to the ceremony to prove the rather 
condescending sympathy rich people 
usually feel for those less fortunate than 
themselves, and were now completely 
amazed at the display of wealth and 
brilliancy of this unexpected assembly. 
They could not hope for anything more 
themselves, and more than one would 
have envied her, if youth understood 
the feeling we know so well in later 
years. K 

Naturally pious — affected as women 
usually are under such circumstances — 
Jeanne sought strength in prayer, liais- 
ing her eyes in a few moments, she saw 
standing near, a dark pale face, looking 
at her with an expression that made her 
tremble. She thought she was mista- 
ken, and she tried to turn away her 
looks and thoughts, but she felt attracted 
in spite of herself. For the second time 
she looked long and earnestly. She re- 
cognised the Count de Bois-Robert. 

Was it the chance of an early morn- 
ing’s walk that brought him to the Rue 
de Clichy ? Had he accidentally lounged 
into the open church? Not at all ! A 
gossippy paper had informed him of 
Jeanne’s intended marriage, and he 
rushed to taste in its greatest intensity 
the bitterness of his regrets. From the 
moment he saw the young girl, he never 
took his eyes off of her. A magnetic 
power stronger than his will riveted him 
to her. It was the counterpart of the 
other marriage, when he was at the altar 
with Mile. Blanchelande, whilst Jeanne, 
forgotten, betrayed, fed on her heart, 
drank her tears; abandoned to all the 
anguish of despair, heard the fatal words 
that killed all her future happiness. 

Now he was the one who loved, who 
lost the woman he adored. He had 
abandoned her to all the chances, trials 
and dangers of life. She had come out 
of them strong, serene, triumphant. He 
saw her now in the midst of the prestige 
of rank and fortune, surrounded with a 
brightness that heightened all her natu- 
ral charms. The joy on her counte- 
nance, the maidenly blushes on her 
,face, the brightness of her eyes, were 
occasioned by her love for another — for 
another to whom she would be all she 


might have been for him — the strength, 
sweetness, joy of his life. Had he not 
been her first love ? If he had lost her, 
was it not his own fault ? Had he not 
himself thrown her, as it were, into M. 
de Verteins’ arms? At thinking thus, 
a jealous bitterness sprang up in his 
heart, and he leaned his forehead on his 
hands as if he feared it would burst. 

Jeanne’s soul was too compassionate 
not to sympathize with his feelings. She 
had too cruelly experienced them not to 
pity the one who felt them in his turn, 
and at the moment when she was filled 
with her own happiness, she prayed fer- 
vently that Heaven would cure in the 
heart of the young man the wound she 
herself had caused. 

But, her thoughts soon returning to 
the one to whom she now entirely be- 
longed, she thought only of her gratitude, 
her love, her adoration. 

As the marquis, happy and proud, 
was helping her into his carriage, her 
dress brushed a gentleman who had not 
time to move out of her way to let her pass. 

It was M. de Blanchelande, whom she 
had never thought of since the violent 
scene so fortunately interrupted by the 
•arrival of M. de Verteins. The baron, 
after his discomfiture, had not dared to 
present himself at Mile. Derville’s house. 
But, governed by a passion which en- 
grossed his life, he had not ceased to 
roam around the house. No one will be 
surprised that he had not needed the 
present of Artaxerxes to purchase the 
conscience of the porter G-abriel, through 
whom he learnt of the approaching mar- 
riage of the young girl. A feeling of 
shame that he could not conquer, pre- 
vented him from entering the church 
during the ceremony, but he could not 
resist the desire to see Jeanne for the 
last time, and his heart beat like a young 
college boy’s as he waited for her coming. 

The new marquise passed by him 
proud, magnificent, not deigning to 
honor him even by a look. 

All the equipages disappeared, one 
after another, and the baron, with hag- 
gard look, remained rooted to the spot, 
still waiting for the one who would 
return no more. 

At the moment when he had recovered 
himself and was going away, the Count 
de Bois-Robert appeared alone on the 
threshold of the church door. 


182 


THE PUPIL OP THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


The father-in-law and son-in-law gave 
each other a look which penetrated into 
each other’s soul, and without a word 
walked away together. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A N hour later, Jeanne haying 
■t JL changed her wedding dress for 
her travelling attire, and her veil and 
orange blossoms for a little round hat 
with a waving feather, the express train 
bore the young couple to that beloved 
Normandy, which was so dear to Jean- 
ne’s memory. A coupe, secured in ad- 
vance by the marquis, permitted the 
happy couple to enjoy the pleasures of 
a t§te-a-t6te. M. de Verteins did not 
wish his pleasure to be frightened away 
by the mixture in a common car. 

“ My dear lord, will you please tell 
me, now, where we are going ?” asked 
Jeanne, when Paris was left behind and 
■they were in the open country ; “ you 
must do me this justice, that I have 
followed blindly, without knowing where 
you are leading me.” 

“As a woman ought to follow her 
husband ! The mayor, according to his 
■office duties, has just told you this. But 
be comforted, my dear angel, and rest 
in me. I will only lead you where you 
desire.” 

“ That will not be a very difficult 
thing to do — all places are alike with 
you.” • 

“Well, since I must tell you — we are 
going to Avranches.” 

0 O 

“To Avranches?” replied Jeanne, 
with joyous surprise; “ I am delighted 
— but what are we going there for?” 

“For nothing that we could not get 
•elsewhere. At this moment all earth is 
indifferent to me — I live in heaven. But 

1 know that Avranches is your native 
place, and that you have an especial 
regard for it, and have held it in sweet 
and pious remembrance. This is why I 
am taking you there.” 

“How I thank you for understanding 
me so well !” 

A post-chaise was waiting for them 
at Carentan station, and leaving the 
railroad they drove for half a day 
through one of the most beautiful coun- 
tries in the world, and entered triumph- 
antly into the court of the best hotel at 


Avranches. The first person who met 
them was the honorable master Gravis, 
a little larger, stouter, and more gray 
than when Mile. Derville was last here. 
Notified by a dispatch, the honest no- 
tary was prepared. He saluted the 
marquis, hat in hand, with all the 
demonstrations of respect and reverence 
of a bailiff of the ancient regime, wel- 
coming his lord among his vassals. 

M. de Verteins, who knew life too well 
to show the least particle of aristocratic 
pride, shook him cordially by the hand, 
and moved aside to let him see Jeanne. 

“ My wife, dear M. Gravis.” 

“ Madame La Marquise, your humble 
servant,” replied the notary without ever 
raising his head. 

“ Good-morning, dear sir, I am de- 
lighted to see you,” replied the young 
lady with her beautiful harmonious 
voice. 

Gravis raised himself so quickly at 
this that his spectacles were in great 
danger. He looked twice at Jeanne as 
if he scarcely recognised her, and in a 
barely intelligible voice, he stammered : 

“ Madame — Mademoiselle — Madame 
la Marquise — Mademoiselle Jeanne — ” 

“ Madame la Marquise de Verteins,” 
said Pierre, smiling. 

“ I know,” he continued, “ that you 
are old friends. My wife” — how it 
pleased him to say this new word My 
Wife ! — “ my wife has told me of all her 
former obligations to you, and we have 
now come to thank you.” . 

These words, so clear and precise, 
could not recall the notary from his first 
shock, to the reality of things. He did 
not understand what he saw. Jeanne 
Derville, the poor orphan, the daily 
governess, whose only fortune was the 
Rosery, become suddenly rich, titled, a 
great lady, passed his wildest imagina- 
tion. The good man did not know 
where he was. 

However, the facts were before him, 
the evidence could not be denied. 
Jeanne herself, standing before the no- 
tary, gave to the act a character of au- 
thenticity that a notary could not doubt. 
He must acknowledge the daughter 
of the colonel was a real marchioness. 
Gravis, on hearing of the marriage, 
had never suspected the real state of 
the case. Such a union was equal to 
I the ending of a tale of the Arabian 


T1IE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


183 


Thousand-and-One Nights, and it was 
difficult for him to recover from his 
surprise. It requires more than human 
perfection to rejoice at the happiness of 
a woman one loves, when that happiness 
is caused by another. Gravis was much 
annoyed, but he ended by conquering 
himself, and addressing these improvised 
words to Jeanne with perfect sincerity: 

“ Believe, Madame la Marquise, that 
no person can be more rejoiced at your 
happiness than I am, for no one knows 
so well how much you deserve it.” 

“ I have never doubted your goodness 
nor your interest in me,” said Jeanne, 
pressing his hand. 

“Monsieur le Marquis,” said the 
notary, in a low tone, “your orders 
have been carried out, the papers are 
in my study.” 

“Oh! I do not want papers, only 
give me the keys.” 

“ This is the way a lover speaks, but 
not a notary. If I had not the papers, 
you could not have the keys, Monsieur 
le Marquis. He ! he ! Business is 
business, as I always told the poor 
colonel, the father of Madame la Mar- 
quise.” 

“Is it far from the village ?” 

“ About twelve miles; there is a sign- 
post on the road. The gate of the park 
is five minutes further on. I have a 
‘ Percheron’ in my stable that Mile. 
Jeanne — pardon me, that Madame la 
Marquise knows very well. The gray 
is not young, but if you will allow, he 
will take you there in three-quarters of 
an hour.” 

Gravis had doubtlessly supposed his 
offer would be accepted, for while they 
were still talking, his carriage drove up 
to the door of the hotel. 

“ Here is my ‘ demi-fortune,’ ” said 
he, showing a carriage much in vogue 
twenty years ago among the small pro- 
perty owners, and “here,” added he, 
“is also my daughter.” 

“ An entire fortune !” replied the 
marquis maliciously, alluding to the 
dress laden with ornaments of the en- 
raged provincial. 

Hose Desiree, armed with her substi- 
tute, was really entering the hotel court, 
desiring to see with her own eyes the 
marquis; her father's mouth had been 
so full for eight days, to use her own 
expression more expressive than elegant. 


Marriage had not improved Bose Desiree; 
it had not softened her. She was always 
the disagreeable person, dry, thin, angu- 
lar, that we have met in this tale. She 
did not at first recognise Jeanne, who 
was standing with her back turned, but 
she could not help an envying admira- 
tion of the beautiful aristocratic ele- 
gance of the travelling dress, so perfect 
in its whole harmony of detail. 

Bose was still examining her when 
Jeanne, turning suddenly, showed her 
face glowing with youth and happiness. 
The two ladies recognised each other. 
Bose saiuted her with a constrained 
manner, compressing her thin lips, and 
drawing her eyes down obliquely like a 
cat. 

Jeanne had not forgotten the malevo- 
lence of the notary's daughter. But 
she was like the king of France; she 
would not revenge the injuries done to 
the dauphin, and her good nature 
prompted her to forget them. This was 
all Bose Desiree, if she did justice to the 
herself, could hope to obtain. 

They set out. 

Jeanne made the notary sit by her 
side, and her husband opposite; Jacque- 
line was hoisted alongside of the coach- 
man . They took the route to the Bosery . 

Jeanne gave her husband a touching 
look, full of questions she dared not ask. 
The coachman’s whip gave wings to the 
Percheron. The carriage flew. They 
soon reached the gate of the cottage. 

“ It is here, then, we are to pass our 
few holidays,” said Jeanne to M. de 
Verteins. 

“ I wished to do so, dear child ; but 
M. Gravis, who knows the laws better 
than you or I, will tell you that when 
one has a good or a bad tenant, it is 
impossible to take his house from him 
even for a day before his term has ex- 
pired ; only as I know your filial piety, 
and how you have cultivated your affec- 
tion for those who are no more, I have 
wished, that in your first halt in life's 
journey we might make a pilgrimage 
together to their graves.” 

“ How good you are !” said Jeanne, 
in a low tone. “And how I love you !” 
added she, still lower, pressing his hand. 

The carriage stopped. The captain 
was at the gate as the time before — a 
little older, but eager and polite. 

He welcomed the young couple in 


184 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


strong terms, and all went into the 
garden. 

Jeanne took the arm of M. de Yer- 
teins. 

“Although it is only in passing, and 
for an hour, still you cannot tell how 
glad I am to welcome you in my house/' 
said she, to M. de Yerteins. 

“ Would I could do so in my turn !" 

“What difference is it?" said she, 
with charming cajolery. “ What belongs 
to one does it not belong to the other 
when they love ?" 

“You never said anything truer than 
that !" 

“ My friend, before showing you the 
little abode where we will some day 
repose, permit me to show you above, 
alongside of the church." 

“ It is for that purpose I have brought 
you here." 

They were on the path to the church- 
yard, when the captain silently handed 
her a large bunch of roses. 

“ Thanks," said she ; “ you also have 
understood my wishes." 

They went slowly towards the field of 
eternal repose. She went first, he fol- 
lowed at some distance ; neither spoke. 

Jeanne refound the tombs where, 
three years before, broken down with 
sorrow, in the bitterness of unmerited 
desertion, given up to all anguish, flee- 
ing from the past, doubtful of the future, 
she had knelt to pray; she returned 
there now, after gaining the battle of 
life. 

Alone ! thanks to her own energy, to 
her own courage, to her own persever- 
ance, she had marked out her own path, 
and gained her position without losing 
the respect of herself nor the esteem of 
others. She might not be at the end of 
her trials, but, leaning on the arm of the 
man she loved, sustained by him, she 
could fear nothing — truly nothing. 
Therefore, in the midst of these sorrow- 
ful recollections, filled with eternal 
regrets that she felt for these dear souls, 
a sweet peace glided imperceptibly into 
her soul. 

At the moment when she, in her 
turn, was becoming the head of a new 
family, she felt that death is not an 
eternal separation, that its dark limits 
end here below, and that it is not a 
Farewell for ever ! but We meet again! 
that the loved lips ought to say to those 


they leave. From those dear beings who 
slept alongside of each other, united in 
death as in life, after having rejoiced in 
their love, she asked permission to be 
happy in her turn with the one they 
would doubtless have chosen for her. 
She prayed in a low tone for a few mo- 
ments, but with a burst of fervor that 
carries the soul to heaven ; then she laid 
the roses on the tombs, and turned to her 
husband, who stood some distance away. 

“ Now," said she, throwing herself on 
his breast, “ I am wholly thine. Lead 
me where you desire. I will follow 
blindly — in this life and in the next !" 

M. de Yerteins dried a tear that 
rolled on his manly face. Half an hour 
afterwards the notary's carriage, drawn 
by the gray, entered the court of a 
pretty little chateau, where all the popu- 
lation seemed united in their honor, 
having been prepared by Gravis. 

Nothing was wanting, neither the 
firing of the local artillery — represented 
by three guns — nor the huge bouquets, 
ornamented with symbolic favors ; nor 
the traditional discourse written by the 
magistrate of the village, and recited by 
a young girl in a white dress. One 
could believe they were in the days of 
the good old times. 

“What does all this mean?" asked 
Jeanne of M. de Yerteins. “ I do not 
know what has happened; it seems that 
for the last two days I have become the 
heroine of a fairy tale." 

“What difference is that? If the 
tale pleases thee, it is easy to turn it 
into reality." 

“ But where am I then ?" 

“ At my house — no, at our house, 
dear little one." 

“ How, is this chateau yours ?" 

“ Certainly, I have bought it to pass 
our honeymoon here." 

“ Indeed ! then you are not poor?" 

“ Not absolutely !" 

“ Then, sir, you have deceived me," 
said she, with an accent of sweet re- 
proach. 

“ This is the only time." 

“ Explain why all this mystery." 

“ Jeanne, dear Jeanne, will you make 
a little allowance for me ?" 

“ A great deal, especially if you do 
not need it." 

“Well, know then, I wished to be 
loved for myself alone — a beautiful 


THE PUPIL OF THE LEGION OF HONOR. 


185 


dream, is it not, dear soul? In a life 
already long, I have seen interest so 
often govern the actions of human 
beings, that I have conceived a distaste 
for my equals that had rendered me 
misanthropic. I would have believed 
myself the most miserable of men if I 
could have suspected that such a motive 
could influence the woman who was to 
be my wife. I therefore led those 
around me to believe that I had swal- 
lowed up the patrimony left to my 
youth. I haye stated, and every one 
has believed, that I was now obliged to 
work for my bread. From that time 
the eager attentions I had received 
diminished. My love for men and even 
for women was not increased by this. 
Now I was in my second youth, the 
time when all illusions vanish. I said 
farewell to my hopes, and resolved to 
live alone. I met you, Jeanne, and all 
my resolutions vanished. To be loved 
by you, to be loved for myself alone, 
.vas a desire that filled all my being 


with violent intensity. My emotions 
resembled those of the player, who risks 
his all on one card. I wished with you 
to gain all or lose all. It seemed to me 
that if I was fortunate enough to induce 
you to accept the affections of a poor 
man — to enter into his life of work 
and privations — the advantages I owe 
to chance would aid me to pay my debt 
of gratitude, and to repair the wroDgs a 
cruel destiny has so long shown you. 
Now thou knowest all, my beloved 
Jeanne. Will you pardon me ?” 

“ They pardon culprits, and you are 
the best of men. It is I now who must 
ask if the loving heart of a woman, and 
the devotion of her life, can repay you 
for what you have done for me.” 

The firing of muskets, and the re- 
peated cries of “ Long live Madame la 
Marquise !” prevented Jeanne from hear- 
ing her husband’s reply ; but he pressed 
her hand so tenderly, that the gesture 
took the place of words. 


THE END. 




















































































































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